Tales of The DEMON
by Dien Alcyone
Summary: A fanfiction series centering around Etrigan the Demon and his keeper Jason Blood
1. The Homecoming

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #1 ~ The Homecoming

PROLOGUE

It had rained earlier in the evening, a slow, steady, dismal drizzle falling from an iron sky. In other cities, rain leaves the air cleaner, fresher; seems to strip away the accumulations of grime and oil.

In other cities.

In Gotham, mere water can never wash the filth and darkness from the city's soul.

It is the middle of December and this winter's night is cold and damp. Usually by this time of the year, snow has already fallen to cover the city and hide the stained and dirty streets, to muffle victims' screams and bury the stench from the sewers. But the snow is late this year, and the cold December seems interminable.

" 'Always winter and never Christmas,' " the man sitting in the back of the late, late bus into Gotham City quotes to himself as he stares morosely out the window. And then he smiles, a quick cold smile, teeth flashing in the shadows of his face. 

He doesn't particularly _like Christmas._

The bus finally leaves the poorer, industrial areas of the city behind for the brighter lights and sleeker buildings of the financial district, and then the expensive penthouses and high-rises of the rich and affluent.

He is the last passenger to get off, nodding to the driver and giving him a substantial tip. Carrying his suitcase and briefcase, he walks one block north to enter the empty (at this hour) lobby of Blood Towers—one of Gotham's penthouses (read: playpens) for the wealthy. All the floors are currently occupied, rented out to those willing to pay for the luxury—except the 13th floor. The top floor. _His floor._

He enters the elevator and presses the button for floor thirteen.

The elevator hums quietly as it rises. He stares at his reflection in the polished, shiny surfaces of the metal doors. With a silent, imperceptible shudder, the lift stops to let him out, and into his home.

Still, now; standing, listening, in the doorway.

There is the soft stir of air in the long-empty apartment, bringing with it the scent of leather and paper, dust, faint incense… and almost unnoticeable, the copper tang of old, dried blood.

Shadows are dusky and tangible like velvet, filling more space than they should and pressing up against the body like an old and unwanted lover. There is a brief rustling as of scaled wings moving against each other… an unpleasant snigger, so soft as to make you wonder if you only imagined it… a faint shrill scrabbling, as of clawed feet on glass.

Things stir then, briefly, in the darkness, on shelves and in locked cabinets and in dusty glass bottles as the light from the hallway disrupts their long sleep. Eyes flicker open, green and gold and red eyes, small and many, to gaze with inhuman wisdom and cunning before veiling over against the painful man-made glare.

In the darkness, the man nods brief greetings. In the darkness, he enters, setting down luggage and taking off his coat. In the darkness, he goes to the kitchen and fixes a drink. He moves to a window and looks out over Gotham, her lights… and her shadows.

Outside, the snow finally begins to fall, crystal flakes drifting down from the sullen clouds.

Jason Blood sips his drink, feeling the warmth curl though him. He smiles and says to the city, "It's nice to be back."

END PROLOGUE

            "Come on, Luis!"

            "Shut up. I'm going as fast as I can. You want to do this?"

            "Look, all I'm saying is the longer we're out here the more--"

            "I _know what you're saying. You been saying it all damn night. Shut up and stop moving the light around. I need it steady."_

            Antonio shivers and obeys his brother, fixing the flashlight on the lock that Luis is picking. _God, it's cold out. His breath steams in the night air as he looks nervously behind him, unable to stop the chill that comes from more than the cold. He knows what lives out here in the night, in the shadows. _

He wishes he'd never listened to Luis when his older brother had spoken of easy money… but he had needed the money too much to tune Luis out, still needed it too much. With the baby on the way.

For a second, a warm glow fills him despite the two inches of snow that fill Gotham's streets. Antonio was raised a good Catholic by his grandmother. When Juanita told him she was pregnant, he never even considered leaving her. He'd marry her, keep the job at the gas station even though it didn't pay anything worth speaking of. He'd do the right thing by her and their son.

And then his boss had fired him, and Luis, just out on parole, had spoken so sweetly of money, enough money that he and Juanita would never need to worry again. He remembers the conversation:

"You're… you're talking about robbery. Wh-What about the Batman, Luis?"

"The Bat?! You're joking, little brother. Don't you know, he only wastes his time with the big ones, the _locos. Not with people like us."_

_Not with people like us._

Antonio repeats the phrase over and over to himself, a mantra against what lives out here in the night, in the shadows.

The click of the bolt then, surprisingly loud to Antonio's ears. Luis gives a satisfied grunt.

"See? Nothing to it. This place is deserted, no alarms, no nothi--"

"Si, si. Let's just get the hell out of the alley, out of sight."

"Okay, okay. You whine like a woman, Tony."

As they enter the building, blessedly out of the biting wind, the younger brother casts one last glance at the street, at the rooftops—

The jagged edge of a cloak whips at the edge of a roof for half a second, then vanishes.

"_Mi Dios, Luis! It's him! I saw him, I saw the Batman! Oh God, he's coming, he's coming for us…"_

His brother's strong brown hand grabs his throat, pulling him inside the building and slamming him into the nearest wall. "Shut. Up. You didn't see nothing. You're jumping at shadows, you stupid, stupid--"

The window above their heads explodes with a burst of glass shards. Through a million raining pieces of death, each one glittering and painfully sharp, Antonio Gutierrez sees a figure come through the window, the silhouette of a ragged cape spread out behind him.

"Not with people like us…" he whispers as glass enters his head and hands.

His brother is pulling a gun, bang bang bang in the deserted building, flashfire in the night and useless, completely useless. Antonio knows this, even as the thing he faces speaks.

**"Fair greeting, o ye who've turned to petty crime**

**"Children, this eve, of both need and greed.**

**"Were I the night-stalker, you'd both serve time**

**"But I am me, and desire rather… to feed.**

**"Be your flesh roasted or raw in its own bloody brine**

**"It shall do for my hunger, for the flesh of man**

**"Has always seemed to me most fitting and fine.**

**"Aye, you both shall do for Etrigan."**

And it begins to laugh, moving towards them. 

Antonio Gutierrez knows what lives out here in the night, in the shadows. It is not the Bat.

It is worse.

He pulls the cross from around his neck on its heavy chain and recites every prayer his _abuelita ever taught him. __Mary mother of Jesus protect me, Virgin Mother protect me, saints be near me in my hour of need. Ave Maria, madre de Jesus, madre de Cristo protect me and save me…_

"Hail Mary full of grace…" Antonio starts backing up, holding the cross out in front of him as the demon from hell takes the life of his brother in a flash of talons and an explosion of red. Antonio's hand trembles violently.

And then he's at the door, out of the building, running away from that place as fast as his legs will move, clutching the crucifix in one white-knuckled hand and crying.

_Hail Mary full of grace…_

In the empty building behind him, Etrigan the Demon licks bloody claws and smiles, razor sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. What once was the unfortunate Luis Gutierrez lays more or less in front of him, his rent form mute testament of carnage.

**"Now pity mortal frame**

**"Frail as the reed**

**"Just like their faith.**

**" 'Hail Mary,' indeed."**

The demon turns to the wall behind him and extends one long taloned finger to the bare cement. The thin screech filling the air, he scratches an upside-down cross into the wall, a twisted and malefic grin growing on his face as he does so.

**"Though I've left you not the ears to hear, my meal**

**"The truth about that manger's suckling Whelp**

**"You still have the eyes to see, I trust**

**"That He didn't bequeath _thee much help._**

**"'Tis, I fear, the same old story**

**"As Cain and Abel once performed.**

**"One brother's offering honored with glory**

**"The other's plea for recognition scorned.**

**"But, my friend, I think that thee **

**"Are now far past such things as jealousy."**

The grin turns into laughter, harsh and disturbing in the night. Etrigan turns from the grisly remains of his banquet, leaping with grotesque agility to the now-shattered window above, and from there making his way into the night air outside.

Moving on Gotham's rooftops in the 2 a.m. shadows, he crosses town swiftly and silently, to immerse himself in the Art Deco spires and Gothic arches of upscale Gotham. Eventually his booted feet find themselves on the steep roof of Gotham's tallest cathedral, balance sure despite the treacherous footing as he recklessly scales the church's steeple.

At the top he pauses, brooding there like one of the building's own gargoyles as he stares with fiery eyes at the streets below. A cold wind picks up from across the bay, whipping his long, tattered cloak around the steeple.

**"A long, amusing sojourn it has been**

**"Since last Etrigan walked this city of sin.**

**"Other cities, other heroes, and other foes of late**

**"Have occupied his time, I fear. **

**"But now, capricious Lady Fate**

**"Has brought him back, to here.**

**"For there seems one thing I've learned—**

**"Wherever my feet have chosen to roam**

**"To this darkling city I've always returned.**

**"Gotham, it seems, is damned to be my home," Etrigan muses to himself as he stares at the city below. For a moment he is silent, and then he laughs loudly, the sound ringing in the cold air.**

**"'Tis fitting, that this place so full of the evil of man**

**"Should also be cursed with Etrigan.**

**"Oh, sweet Gothamites fair! **

**"Quake and cower in the night air!**

**"And tremble uneasily during the day**

**"For the Demon's back, and here to stay."**

Smirking, he bends the iron of the steeple's crucifix into a crumpled mass and leaps from the rooftop to enter Gotham's deepest shadows and disappear.

On the other side of Gotham, in the middle of a patrol, the Batman shivers once and wonders why. 

In the skyscraper next to the cathedral, however, the reaction is not unease but a sense of triumph. A slim and feminine hand lowers a pair of binoculars. The hand's owner smiles, sweet and dangerous in the night, with the knowledge that the hunt begins now…

The morning light breaks over Gotham, pale wintry radiance barely summoning the energy to break through the overcast sky. Alfred Pennyworth sips a cup of Earl Grey tea as he watches the sun's feeble attempts to rise from the welcome warmth of the kitchen.

"Morning, Alfred."

"Good morning, sir. Breakfast is on the table," Alfred says, not turning from his vantage point at the kitchen window, where he commands an excellent view of the snow-covered front yard. "It appears to have snowed last night, Master Bruce."

A grunt. "I noticed. I happened to be _out in it last night."_

"Ah, yes. On one of your nocturnal adventures." Turning, Alfred surveys his master silently, the one raised eyebrow speaking more eloquently than volumes of speech could of his disapproval for Bruce Wayne's garb. Though his cowl is off, the Batman is still dressed in cape and costume.

While he must surely be aware of his faithful butler's unhappy gaze, Bruce Wayne pretends not to notice, immersing himself in the plentiful spread of toast, bacon, and eggs on the table before him. Alfred clears his throat.

Batman studiously ignores him. Alfred sighs.

"I thought we had agreed, sir, that the outfit is not to be worn at the table. You did make that concession to me, as you may recall, in return for my promise not to mention the last time you were shot to Master Tim--"

"Alright, alright, I surrender," says Bruce, a faint smile twisting the corner of his mouth as he gets up from the table. "I may as well change anyway. We're going into the city."

"'We', Master Bruce?" Alfred remarks blandly, starting to clear away dishes.

"Yes. There's somebody I want to talk to," comes Batman's voice from upstairs.

"Indeed, sir? As Bruce Wayne? I was under the impression that most of Wayne's  associates would not yet be receiving visitors at this time of the morning."

"The one I'm looking for should be. He's something of a night owl."

"Ah. Not unlike yourself. Does he wear a cape to breakfast, too?"

"Funny. Get the car ready."

An impeccably dressed Bruce Wayne enters Blood Towers some forty minutes later, taking the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Early--very early--this morning, as he had moved from rooftop to rooftop finishing his patrol, he had paused for a moment atop the cathedral… and noticed the ruined cross.

It had obviously required great physical strength, and the only being Batman knew who was likely both to have that strength and the desire to disfigure a religious symbol was the demon who resided in the mortal form of Jason Blood, or so Bruce had explained to Alfred as they drove into the city. Alfred had expressed no great desire to meet the famed occultist, and so Bruce Wayne is taking the elevator up alone.

And trying to convince himself there is a good reason for doing this. Why, exactly, is he taking the time to verify that Jason and his pet demon are indeed back in Gotham, after being away… wherever they had been? Etrigan hasn't actually hurt anyone yet. It isn't really his problem. Or his business.

And he would prefer to be elsewhere.

It isn't that he is _afraid of Etrigan. (He is the Batman. He does not get scared. He __gives it.)_

But he is also honest with himself. He acknowledges that the demon makes him… uncomfortable. As does Jason himself, much as he respects and even likes the man. But magic, in general, is not an element the Dark Knight understands or claims to.

The superstition that oft accompanies it, yes. That is a weapon he knows well how to use. The real thing, however…

He would not, he realizes, truly prefer to be elsewhere. He would prefer that the _demon were elsewhere. _

Rather than in Gotham. In _his city. _

The elevator stops and he exits. He knocks on Jason's door and hopes, deep within himself, that there will be no answer.

"Batman. Come in. It isn't locked."

Bruce stops for a long moment. Finally shaking his head, he opens the door and steps into Blood's home.

Sunshine has made the place more welcoming. In the light of day, it looks almost normal—the strange pieces of bric-a-brac scattered around, the disturbing paintings on the walls, the cursed artifacts and relics and carved oddities that lurked malevolently the night before all seem to be faintly absurd now. He takes it all in in a glance.

"You knew I was coming." When he speaks, his voice is that of the Batman, not of Bruce Wayne.

Jason smiles faintly, turning from the window where he looks out over the city to face the Dark Knight. "And a very good morning to you, too. Please, sit down." 

Batman remains standing. Jason's smile grows broader as he sits and pours himself a drink, remarking in a conversational tone, "You know, I'd forgotten how much I enjoy Gotham."

"How?"

"How do I enjoy Gotham? Now, I admit that at first glance the city can be off-putting, but--"

"How did you know I was coming."

"Ah." Jason sips his drink, leaning back in his chair and observes Batman for several moments, his amused smile gradually fading. He sets his glass down on a coaster made from the scales of a beast long dead and steeples his fingers.

"I know many things, Batman. I know there is a darkness at this city's core. I know there is a sickness in the night, that breeds evil and crime and madness. I know you fight it. 

"Other things… that I might know… surely these aren't really important. Not to you."

Batman gives it up. If Blood wants to be mysterious and obscure, he will be, and there's nothing he can do about it. The demonologist is one man he cannot intimidate. He shifts tactics.

"You were gone from Gotham."

"Yes. Yes, I was. I traveled… spent some time in Europe, some in Gateway City. I briefly fought—or I should say, Etrigan briefly fought—one of your colleagues, the Amazon princess… then allied with her.

"I bought some art in Paris. I visited a villa I own in Greece. I talked to some old acquaintances and tasted wine in southern Italy.

"And eventually… as always… I came back here. I do like this city. As much as anywhere, it is home, I suppose. Now… that I've treated you to a tour of Europe… what did you want to talk to me about, Bruce?

"I _may call you Bruce…?"_

Batman ignores the question of his name, idly lifting an hourglass from a nearby table and flipping it. "Last night. Gotham's St. Matthew's Cathedral. Something destroyed the crucifix on the steeple."

"Yes. Is that all the demon did, then…? Well, your sense of civic duty does you credit, _Bruce… but I already sent St. Matthew's money this morning to pay for repairs."_

"Sent?"

"Anonymously, of course."

"Of course." Batman gives an imperceptible sigh and set the hourglass back down.

"Was that _all, then?" asks Blood, rising from his seat._

"You tell me. When you spoke of that being 'all the demon did'… is there something else I should know about, Jason?"

"You're asking me? Remember, Batman, all I know of Etrigan's actions is what he deigns to share with me. So as far as I know, yes, that is all."

"Mm. Fine. Thanks for your time, Jason."

Jason smiles as he holds the door open for Wayne to leave. "Anytime. And Bruce…? Have a nice day."

_And what are the chances of that? Gotham's protector wonders to himself as he presses the button to descend from the thirteenth floor. __I'm sure Blood finds it ironic, people going up __to reach the demon's home when hell traditionally lies beneath us…_

Back in the car, Alfred takes one knowing glance at his master's face and asks, "I take it your undefined mission did not go well, sir?"

"It went. Somewhat… inconclusively, but it went. Is it just me, Alfred, or does it—the madness, the darkness, the… evil… of it all—does it get worse in the winter?"

"I wouldn't know, Master Bruce. Such things are really more your hobbies than mine."

Jason has just unpacked Harry Matthews. Harry is understandably grumpy. "Really, Jase, just leave me squished inside the suitcase all night long while you get to gallivant around town--"

"While Etrigan gets to gallivant around town, Harry."

"Whatever. All night long—and let me tell you buddy, your underwear does not have much in the way of personality _or conversation skills, awright? I mean, cheez, I don't expect much; I'm a flesh cushion, I take it in stride I'm not gonna get a lot of respect… but still, IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK TO BE TAKEN OUT OF THE SUITCASE __BEFORE YOU CHANGE INTO YER STINKIN' DEMON???"_

"I said I was sorry. I forgot."

"You forgot. My best friend 'forgot' I was cramped next to his unwashed socks, frazzly toothbrush, and a cheap paperback copy of The Last of the Mohicans… what, may I ask, is the world coming to?"

Jason sighs and sets the flesh pillow down on the couch. "The same thing it's always coming to, Harry. Apocalypse, Ragnarok, Judgment Day… pick a euphemism."

"I forgot how you're always so cheerful in the morning, Jason," grumbles Harry.

Jason ignores the comment and begins to hunt through the refrigerator for breakfast ingredients. Unfortunately, much of the food in the apartment has gone bad in his long absence. Eggs and milk are quickly inspected and thrown out, as well as all other dairy items.

"What are you gonna make us for breakfast, Jase?" says Harry to the demonologist's back.

"Depends on what in here is still—phew! Here's another one for the dump… edible, Harry," mutters Jason. "Hey. Can you make anything with pickles and champagne?"

"Urrgh. For breakfast? Even when I was alive, I was more of a order-in guy than a chef, but I don't think it sounds appetizing."

"Hmm. Next, I suppose."

A few minutes passed in silence while Jason finally gave up on the fridge and moved to the shelves.

"Jason?"

"Canned beets… yes, Harry?"

"Can I ask a question?"

"Flour… yes, Harry."

"When are you gonna call Randu and Glenda and let 'em know you're back in town?"

Silence.

"Jase?"

"Do you think this pasta is still good?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"It's seven months past the expiration date…"

"And my question will be too. Come on, Jase, you can't just let them hang like this! I mean, granted, it may not have worked out too well between you and Glen, but cheez, they're still your friends and all! You oughta at least call and say hi.

"I mean, at least say hi to Randu. Dude's probably worrying his turban off about you, y'know? It'd be considerate. And even if _you want to cut all ties, what makes you think I do? They're still __my friends. It's a little bit… selfish._

"And, hey, I know you dig the whole 'I-am-Jason-Blood-bound-to-the-horrible-demon-and-cursed-to-live-forever-don't-get-too-close-to-me-you-might-end-up-a-seat-cushion-like-my-friend-Harry-here-except-I-don't-call-him-my-friend-because-'friend'-would-mean-I'm-you-know-HUMAN-and we-can't-have-that' thing…. but everybody needs friends.

"So whaddaya think, Jase?

"Jason?"

Blood closes a cabinet, his face set in grim lines. "What do I think…? I _think you need to mind your own business. I __think a lot more than you do before I open my mouth. I __think… I need to go buy some groceries._

"I'll be back later," Jason says tersely, and heads out the door.

"Hey! You can't just--"

SLAM. 

Harry sighs and leans his pillow-self back against the other things on the couch, muttering to himself, "Welcome back to Gotham, Harry. _This is an auspicious beginning to things…"_

THE NEXT ISSUE BOX THAT CAUGHT FIRE AT THREE IN THE MORNING: Will Jason call Randu and Glenda? Who is the mysterious woman watching Etrigan? What will Harry do? And what will they eat for breakfast??? Tune in next month, same time, same station, for a journey that will lay all of your questions to rest. If we feel like answering them, that is.


	2. Bella Roma

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #2 ~ "Bella Roma"

by Dien

FIVE MONTHS AGO 

The room was rich and sumptuous, oak paneling and priceless tapestries on the walls and a thick carpet on the floor. A few paintings-a Cézanne, a Monet, and a da Vinci-hung upon the walls in tasteful positions. An aged and bejeweled hand poured steaming tea into fine china from a pewter teapot. Voices spoke quietly. 

(Translated from the Italian) 

"…Yes, Father, I understand the necessity. But nonetheless, is it so necessary to send… well… could we not find someone a bit more… circumspect?" 

A soft chuckle followed. "You disapprove of my choice of Capella, Andre?" 

"No, of course I do not 'disapprove,' Holy Father. It is only that I wish Capella was not quite so, ah, conspicuous." 

"And you also wish she was a bit more, hmm... submissive, no?" 

"…I…Well, yes, Holy Father. She has quite a record of being insubordinate-a 'problem child,' as it were." 

"Of course. 'Insubordinate.' A diplomatic way of putting her refusal to acquiesce to some of your more… personal requests, hmm?" 

"Father! Surely you do not imply that I--" 

"Spare me your bluster, Andre. I am old, not blind or senile. Regardless of your feelings regarding Signorina Capella, she will be the one we send to America. She is capable, skilled and ruthless enough to accomplish the task. And if she should fail… well, you yourself said she is a 'problem.' I imagine you would not be too discomfited if Capella does not return from this mission. Do we understand each other, my son?" 

"… Perfectly, my Father." 

GOTHAM. NOW. 

It had taken a while, but the apartment was finally cleared of accrued junk mail and other undesirables, such as several now-out-of-date invitations to Hallowe'en events hosted by Gotham's elite. Blood scowled in disgust. Every Hallowe'en, it was the same; they all wanted the status of having a famous demonologist at their party, as if it somehow made their absurd little masques and phony séances genuine. If it wasn't for the fact that maintaining such contacts with the rich and influential was occasionally useful, he'd long ago have unleashed Etrigan or a few choice spells on the whole idiotic, childish lot. 

Jason sighed and sat back in one of the comfortable leather-upholstered wingback chairs, remembering to move a sleeping Harry out of the way first. 

His thoughts drifted back to the conversation the other day with Batman. _"When you spoke of that being 'all the demon did'… is there something else I should know about, Jason?"_

_"You're asking me? Remember, Batman, all I know of Etrigan's actions is what he deigns to share with me. So as far as I know, yes, that is all."_

Jason snorted. _Etrigan settling for only a cross? That will be the day. I wonder… should I have told the Batman of the likelihood that Etrigan did more than that?_

**If you have something on which you wish to take me to task**

**Hesitate not. As Scripture says--if you'd receive, ask.**

The voice of the Demon whispered in his mind, and as always Blood was filled with a surge of resentment. Not even his thoughts were free of Etrigan… 

_Merely wondering if the blood I found on my hands when you returned me to our body is human, dear Etrigan,_ he thought back, putting as much sarcasm as possible into the tone. 

**And should I, who've feasted on angels, devils and kings**

**Accept anything less than the joy that human flesh brings?**

_Butcher,_ Jason observed, but couldn't work up any real indignation. By now it was almost routine--Etrigan's acts of depravity, the internal feuding that would follow… it was too much work to summon up real anger or disgust over something that had happened so very, very often over the centuries. Etrigan laughed at his half-hearted accusation, made more for tradition's sake than anything else. 

_Laugh all you want, Etrigan. Maybe I'll attend a Mass today. How do you think you'll like that? Just think…Holy Water. You'll feel it, I won't. _

_I may even get the priest to give me a blessing--_

**Jason, you should know better than to threaten me **

**For if you do as you say, then the next time I'm set free **

**I'll not stop in unleashing a fiery tide **

**Until a hundred innocents have died,** growled Etrigan threateningly. Jason merely smiled in the morning sunlight and closed his eyes. Etrigan could make all the dire promises he wanted--this was not Hell, it was Earth; Blood was the stronger here, and moreso than he'd been in centuries. He had some influence over Etrigan even when the demon was in control, now. 

The thought was a pleasant one. The demonologist stood and went into his study, closing the door behind him. During his sabbatical, work had been piling up--though his 'To Do' list varied a bit from the average person's. 

First, replenishing spell components. Supplies of several vital ingredients had gotten low, and he faced the unsavory choice of attempting to buy tongue of frog at the local supermarket or having to deal with local witches in order to obtain it. _Oh, for the Middle Ages, when apothecaries abounded and nobody was stupid enough to ask questions of warlocks._

Then there was the correspondence. He kept a network of contacts--witches, minor demons, druids, and so on--who kept him informed of developments. Several of their letters needed replies, which would then have to be magically sealed to ensure rival magicians would be unable to read the correspondences. Sigh. 

There were several reports of a few covens springing up in Gotham that were decidedly unwanted--especially as their ritual of choice seemed to be human sacrifices. They would have to be dealt with, preferably without summoning Etrigan. 

A rumor that the 12-year old son of Gotham's leading banker was demon-possessed bore investigation. If proven true, steps had to be taken to exorcise and destroy the demon. 

Then there were a few of Gotham's social events that he did have to attend for appearance's sake. A possible werewolf sighting on the east side of Gotham had to be checked out. 

One of Gotham's many museums was planning a diamond exhibition soon, the authorities completely unaware that one of the gemstones was a powerful relic of Atlantis. So that had to be attended, in order to keep the diamond from being stolen by anyone aware of the stone's real worth. 

And, of course, there was the small matter of checking up on his multi-million dollar investments and business concerns, handled for the last few months by his employees and assistants. 

Jason exhaled in frustration. This was impossible. Grabbing a long coat, he left a note for Harry explaining he'd gone for a walk and headed out. 

The late December air was cool and dry, a biting wind whistling through the streets and pushing dead leaves along the sidewalk until they lodged in the slushy drifts left over from the snowfall. Blood stopped and ordered something called a 'Triple Java Mocha' from one of the sidewalk vendors, wondering if any actual coffee beans had been involved in making the beverage he was handed. 

He took a sip and sighed regretfully, tossing the rest of the cup in the next trashcan he passed. "Hopefully this will be one of the more short-lived trends," he muttered to himself. 

Despite the disappointing coffee, the morning was turning out to be enjoyable. Weekends in Gotham City were always interesting, and even if it was a bit quiet for a Sunday afternoon, there were still enough people out and about to make watching them amusing. 

He found a bench near one of Gotham's cathedrals--actually, the one whose crucifix Etrigan had mangled--and sat down to observe the city. 

An ice skating rink was nearby, a few children and couples moving around with more enthusiasm than skill. Holiday decorations were up, which was of minor irritation, but he smiled in the knowledge that it irritated Etrigan much more. In the street, two trucks, one carrying Christmas trees and the other full of distilled water, had hit each other with messy results. The two drivers were standing next to their vehicles and loudly vilifying each other as the police arrived. Behind him, the bells of the cathedral rang one o'clock. 

The parishioners started to leave the building in a slow stream of people, Jason idly watching them. Old grandmothers who probably hadn't missed a Mass their entire life, small children rebelliously loosening collars now that church was over, families, and…      

Jason stopped in his casual perusal, his blue eyes widening slightly in appreciation. The woman who had just exited the cathedral doors, several stocky men accompanying her, would have stood out in any crowd, let alone the mundane congregation of St. Matthew's of Gotham. 

She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, of average height and possessed of a stunning figure that was shown off to good advantage by the close-fitting, short black dress she wore, with a leather jacket for good measure. She walked with consummate skill in her high heels, drawing quite a few glances from those around her--avid ones from the men, murderous ones from the women. Her jet black hair fell down her back in waves, unbound except for a filmy black scarf tied over her head. Sparkling dark eyes looked out with amusement and condescension from her flawless olive complexion. A dazzling, though arrogant, smile shone from under an elfin nose. Her every move spoke plainly that she was a striking beauty, knew it, and had only refrained from seducing every man in the congregation because they weren't up to her standards. 

Jason wondered with a smirk how many of St. Matthew's priests had had heart attacks at the sight of her. 

**My, oh my, my jailer's eye has alighted**

**On the Jesuits' daughter, in whom they've delighted.**

**Here on a mission, and roaming from home--**

**For this _bella dulce_ was sent here by Rome.**

**The Vatican's heart-breaker, the poor monk's test--**

**Stay away from this one; Etrigan knows best.**

_Oh, this is rich. What, you're afraid she'd break my heart?_ Blood retorted to the demon, shaking his head in amused disbelief. 

**I said she was here on orders papal **

**Her schemes and ambitions may prove to be fatal. **

**But don't listen to me, what do I know? **

**I'm just your demon. If you'd talk to her, go.**

_I think I might at that,_ Jason mused, wondering at Etrigan's strange misgivings. Their usual twisted psychology was working again--anything the other showed dislike for was instantly appealing, and vice versa. 

Now all he had to do was figure out some excuse for speaking to her. As the lady and her guards--for such they had to be--made their way to the sidewalk, an opportunity presented itself. They were speaking among themselves in Italian--one of the many languages Blood was fluent in. 

"Gianni, go get the car," she was saying to one of the men. He left to obey, and the remaining two men and the woman stood waiting at the curb, only a few feet from where he sat. 

"How did you find the service, Signorina Capella?" one of the men asked quietly. She shrugged irritably, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her against the cool winter air. 

"American. No worse than expected. It would be no true holy quest if we were not obliged to make some sacrifices, no, Francisco?" she replied with a combination of hauteur and humor. 

"If you ask me, dona, simply being in this miserable weather is sacrifice enough," the other muttered. 

"No, Emilio, it is good for the body. The cold increases the circulation and makes the cheeks rosy," she said with an impish smile and laugh. Her guard didn't look convinced. 

"Excuse me," said Jason in Italian, standing, "but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation and having the rude manners to interrupt. You're from Italy, signorina?" 

Turning startled eyes upon him, Capella nonetheless smiled easily at Blood and said in slightly accented English, "Why, yes, signore. May I compliment you on your Italian? You speak as a native. I wish I could say so about my fluency in your language." 

Jason smiled. "Please, use Italian--it's a much more beautiful language, signorina. Just as Italy is a beautiful place." 

Her smile grew broader as she continued in Italian. "Have you been often to my homeland, signore?" 

"Yes, most recently a few months ago. I own some property in Sicily. It's so nice there this time of year." 

"The Mediterranean is magnificent any time of year. Tell me, what part of Sicily? I have some relatives in Palermo." 

"Ah. All my properties are near Cattania, so I doubt I've met any of your charming relations. The next time I'm there, however, I shall be sure to look out for people named…?" 

"Ah, the signore is bold enough to ask my name and we've barely met," she said with a low laugh. "You must have the warm Italian blood in you someplace. Forgive me; I am Angelina Capella. And you, sir?" she asked, holding out her hand. 

"Jason Blood," he replied, smiling. He considered taking the outstretched hand and bowing over it with a kiss, a la Renaissance, but her two burly watchdogs were beginning to look surly. He shook it politely instead. 

At his name, a different expression flashed over her exquisite face. Her supermodel smile wavered for an instant, the dark eyes narrowing with keen intelligence and slight uncomfortability, but in a second the mask of the brightly charming, alluring lady abroad was back in place. 

"I've heard of you, signore! I am flattered to meet the renowned occultist." 

"The pleasure is all mine, _bella._ But perhaps a good Catholic girl like yourself shouldn't be talking to a man whose primary interests are devils and iniquity?" 

Her slight flush let him know he'd hit the root of her uneasiness on the first try--as well as found a way to circumvent it. Signorina Angelina Capella did not like being called 'a good girl'. 

With a toss of her head, she murmured, "Oh, that is all the priests are interested in too, so it is no matter. Besides, I could always convert you, Signore Blood." 

"I'd make a terrible Catholic. And please, call me Jason." 

She smiled that 1000-watt smile again, and despite himself, Jason's heart skipped a beat. "But of course, Jason. And you must call me Angelina for our remaining two seconds of conversation, because here comes my ride." Laughing, she turned from him and walked to the curb, where a sleek black Bugatti was pulling up, the dutiful Gianni at the wheel. 

One of her flunkies opened the door for her and she stepped in gracefully, stopping midway to turn and wave at Blood. "Arrivederci, my new-found friend. Perhaps we'll meet again while I'm here in Gotham City, hm?" 

"I'd be lucky to be so honored, signorina Angelina. Ciao." 

"Ciao, mi amico," she said with a laugh, rolling up her window. The two thugs--his assessments of them, he realized, were getting less and less kind--gave him a few parting glares, then got in the car themselves. He gave his best infuriating smirk at them, then a genuine smile for Angelina Capella. The Bugatti drove off in a small shower of water from the gutter. 

Jason walked back home with much to think about. Etrigan remained surprisingly quiet. Any other time, this would have been cause for sudden worry, but he wasn't paying much attention to the demon. 

The name Capella tugged at his mind like a dog worrying a bone. Something familiar... something he should recognize. He mused darkly that it would probably be much easier to remember such things if Etrigan didn't take such perverse joy from destroying his memories. 

The rain began to fall again as he neared home, and while the cold hadn't bothered him, being wet did. He was glad to get inside the shelter of the building. 

The elevator hummed softly as it carried him back to the 13th floor, leaving it easy to slip back into his thoughts. Capella... Capella. 'Chapel' in English. Etrigan had called her 'the Jesuit's daughter' and mentioned she 'was sent here by Rome'. 

All of the facts seemed to build up to... something, but what? Jason scowled in anger at the demon who had taken so much of his mind over the centuries. 

Harry, awake now, looked up as he entered. "Boy, your walk must not have done you much good. You look like somebody stole your favorite crystal ball or something." 

"I don't have any crystal balls. They're terribly inaccurate," Jason muttered as he hung up his coat. 

"It was a joke. Not that you'd recognize one." 

"I have a sense of humor, Harry--" 

"Yeah, just a little darker and sicker than most people like it. Come on, when was the last time you tripped on a banana peel for the sake of gratuitous laughter?"        

"When was the last time _you_ did?" 

"Uh... no legs, remember? Besides, I'm the perfect sight gag already." 

"No argument here." 

"Yada, yada. Shaddup and go fix me a drink, wise guy. Anyway... your little stroll put you in a bad mood, huh?" 

Jason paused as he headed toward the kitchen. "No, actually, I had a very nice walk and talked to a very nice person which left me in a _very_ good mood, and then I started thinking about how I probably won't remember it in forty years thanks to you-know-who, and that put me in a bad mood. Bourbon or tequila?" 

"Voldemort's stealing your memories? My goodness. Tequila, please." 

Jason turned and stared at the cushion. "Who? Volde-what?" 

"Nevahmind. Inside joke. Pour." 

Jason shook his head and poured. "You want lime with this?" 

"Sure. So... tell me more about this 'very nice person' you met?" 

Jason fixed another drink for himself and carried them back to the spacious living room, sitting down in one of the chairs and setting his feet on the coffee table. Next, he took his time setting down Harry's glass and adjusting a straw so that the cushion could drink. Then he took a leisurely sip from his own glass and even more leisurely settled himself comfortably, while Harry grew visibly more and more impatient. 

"Interesting. Very interesting," he mused at length. Harry struggled to contain his temper; after all, flying into a rage when you're a pillow is neither productive nor dignified. "And?" he finally burst out with. 

"And what?" asked Jason calmly. 

"And tell me a little more...!" 

"Hmm. Well, Etrigan doesn't like her. I don't know why." 

"Ohhhhhh. It's a her, is it? Jason Blood, ladies' man, Act Two, huh?" replied Harry with a smirk. Jason only smiled. The best way to deal with Harry Matthews was let him stew until he couldn't help but ask questions. 

The seat cushion gave another valiant attempt to act indifferent, but his curiosity won out. "So tell me about this chick!" 

Blood rolled his eyes. "She's not a 'chick.' She. Umm. She's.... none of your business." Smirking, he took another sip of the expensive bourbon. 

Harry fixed him with a reproachful look, as only a former-salesman-turned-seat-cushion can. "Jason. That's not fair." 

"What?" 

"I keep no secrets from you. I tell you everything that goes on in here--" 

"Oh, yes: 'Jason, while you were gone, some dust settled and the paint dried.' Top secret stuff, that." 

"Oh, like I have a wide number of diversions here?? C'mon, Jase!" 

Blood leaned back in the chair and smiled, letting Harry fret for a few more seconds before taking pity. "She's Italian. Her name is Angelina Capella. She travels with three guards and attends Mass regularly. She has relatives in Palermo." 

"Is she pretty?" 

"Stunning." 

"Did you get her number?" 

"Mmm. No. Do license plates count?" 

"Puh-leeze. Well, what about an invitation to share pasta together, a la _Lady and the Tramp_?" 

"Sorry? 

"Cheez, it's useless trying to talk pop culture with you, you know that? Are. You. Two. Going. Out. On. A. Date? With kissing?" 

"No. Her guards would probably stuff me into a trash can if I ever looked at her again. They weren't too friendly. However, she did say she might call on me while she's here in Gotham. Charming woman." 

"Hmph. Well, you coulda done worse, I suppose. Still, not even getting a telephone number.... I think you're losing your touch, pal." 

Jason sniffed. "You're just jealous you didn't get to talk to her." 

Harry sighed. "Damn right, brother. Damn right." 

ELSEWHERE-THAT IS, A BUGATTI AUTOMOBILE 

Angelina Capella smiled secretly to herself as the car moved through Gotham's streets. She had come to America on a mission--but it didn't mean she couldn't enjoy herself while she was here. It was good to be out from under the eye of the Vatican--and more specifically, from the eye of Andre Romani, who as head of the ancient society of the Jesuits, was her increasingly insufferable superior. 

She didn't even mind so much his endless attempts to get her into bed--the Virgin knew she'd had to put up with that ever since she had first begun to rise among the otherwise male-dominated hierarchy. It was expected, now; and while she certainly had not been above using her body for advancement in her career, she belonged to no man and would not be commanded. Capella had made the point several times to Father Andre, but the man was, she thought privately, too stupid to comprehend it. 

_The celibacy of the priesthood, _she thought darkly_. Now there's a notion. Holy Saint Peter must have been off his rocker when he came up with that one._ She caught sight of her own moody reflection in the window and smiled involuntarily. It was no time for dark thoughts, not when Romani was thousands of miles away and all of Gotham lay outside her window for enjoyment. This city was beautiful, in its own darkly brooding, American way--surely nothing like her hometown of Firenze, or the magnificence of Rome, or even the charm of Assisi and others--but something handsome and dangerous in its own right. The artist in her--the bright young girl she had been--longed to leave her three young guards and her orders behind. She'd take to the streets, sit among the pigeons and sketch the skyscrapers. 

Or perhaps, signore Jason Blood. A faint smile lurking at the edges of her mouth, Capella thought of the courteous, strangely compelling man who had spoken to her in such delightful, old-fashioned Italian. She counted herself a good judge of character, but admitted he was bit of a challenge. Biting cynicism and intelligence were her first impressions, but she also detected cold aloofness and a rare amount of self-discipline--steel under the urbane exterior. 

Rumors, of course, abounded about him--after Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor, he was one of the more talked-about figures of high society... all the more intriguing because he eschewed most of the society requirements. He was rarely seen at public events, threw no galas, dallied with no supermodels, and his appearances in the supermarket tabloids were confined to Nostradamus-style predictions, rather than 'Wayne Seen At Drunken Hollywood Orgy-PREGNANT!' 

The rumors didn't do him justice, Angelina mused. They failed to mention his charismatic eyes, charm, and-- 

"_Dona_, we've arrived," Francisco's quietly intruded on her thoughts. Irritably, she brought herself back to the present, and to business. With her customary poise, she exited the car and led the way up a flight of stairs to a shabby-looking apartment. Her three faithful retainers arranging themselves solidly around her, she rang the buzzer. 

After a few moments, the door cracked open an inch. She exhaled in impatience while a uneasy brown eye looked her up and down, its owner finally inching the door another crack wider, then opening it all the way. 

"Ah. You are... Señorita Capella?" the thin young Hispanic at the door said nervously. 

"Sí, señor," she said brusquely, secretly thankful her Spanish was much better than her English. "The Holy Father of all the world sends you his blessing and greeting, as well as thanks you for your assistance to his holy servants. If you would be so kind as to let us enter?" 

"Yes, yes, of course," he said anxiously. Gesturing them in, he briefly introduced a visibly pregnant young woman simply as 'Juanita,' then asked, "The padre--he, he said that the Pope was sending priests to bless the house and keep--keep It from c-coming for me, and that I'd be paid--" 

"Yes, Señor. Yes. All in good time. Now, please describe for me... carefully... what you saw the other night, Antonio Gutierrez." 

He took a deep breath and began. 

ELSEWHERE. (YET AGAIN.) 

Etrigan exhaled slowly, watching the heat from his breath steam in the frozen air. This barren, icy waste was no less a part of the Pit than any other, though a singularly uninhabited portion. This was frustrating, because he desired having something or someone to hit, and the only things to hit in this hell of a hell were the ground and the air-satisfying targets neither. 

The one-time Prince of Hell wrapped his tattered cloak around him and gazed with fiery eyes into the chill distance. Quietly, not to be heard over the bitter wail of the wind of this place for that was impossible, but to break his own inner monotony, he spoke. 

**So things move in their appointed course **

**Spiting my feeble attempts to change and sway. **

**Prophecy gathers, defying demons' force **

**And what unheeded warnings they might chance to say. **

**I gave my all, I tried my best, **

**But should have known it futile. **

**The players all gather, the pieces are set **

**I can but play my part, howe'er brutal. **

**I know not how the scene will play-- **

**The script was writ by greater hand than mine. **

**The third time's the charm, or so they all say **

**Third Act draws nigh, a performance divine. **

**Our lines all unpracticed, we puppets must dance **

**For Fate holds our controlling strings. **

**Well, I'll act--how I'll act--do a soft-shoe or prance **

**Just as long as I'm not asked to sing.**

THE MADE-ENTIRELY-OUT-OF-TOILET-PAPER NEXT ISSUE BOX: Things seem to be heating up in Gotham with the onset of winter--or at least Cupid seems busy. But what the devil is Etrigan going on about? What's Capella's big top secret mission? Stay tuned next month for answers (maybe) and.... John Constantine! 


	3. An Intelligent Reflection of Light

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #3 ~ "An Intelligent Reflection of Light"

by Dien

Story notes: Guest-starring Zauriel! And John Constantine (as promised)! And the Phantom Stranger (briefly)! And Steel (only less briefly)! And... ow. My head hurts. Just read the thing. And no, I don't have any idea what I'm doing.

VINCI, ITALY. 1452 AD

            "Caterina, I'm home," said Piero, hanging his cloak on a wooden peg in the small though comfortable house.

"Things were strange in the village today. A traveling Englishman named Sangue claims he had property stolen from him by poor Giotti... it is unusual. I am holding the item in question at the monastery until the matter can be resolved--a gemstone... Caterina, are you well? You seem so pale...!"

            "I... I think the baby is here, Piero. I--oh, God... still too early... aagh!"

            "Oh... oh, my. I'll go get the midwife at once."

            The child came several agonizing hours later, a fine healthy boy. They named him Leonardo. The birth was of greater interest to the townspeople than the unseen departure of the guest the village hadn't even noticed it hosted: a spirit who, in later years, would inhabit the form of a man called Jim Corrigan--and whom would be known as the Spectre.

A few days later, Piero da Vinci settled the case of theft in favor of the strange, red-headed Englishman, who left town with a sapphire the size of a man's eye.

None in that town except for the man who left with it had the eyes necessary to read the inscription on the jewel, but the words, when translated from their ancient tongue, ran something like this:

_Resides here on Earth the bright star of Fate_

_On three births shall it shine, and they be called great_

_If present be a church and a prison_

_An angel fallen, and demon risen._

_And the children hailed by this strangeling brood_

_May choose their path: 'twixt evil and good._

_Their deeds may inspire praise, or cause woe and regret_

_But 'twill be deeds which in no wise the world will forget._

BRANAU, AUSTRIA. 1889 AD

            "Alois, Herr Konstantin here has just bought the sapphire we have been holding for the consulate. Take him to get the papers signed, will you?"

            "Of course, Herr Schneller. Follow me please, Herr... Konstantin, was it?"

            "Yes, thank you," said the blond-haired man in perfect although accented German.

            "Ahh, you are English? How wonderful. Here is your receipt. Please sign here." As the Englishman signed the papers, Alois couldn't help but impatiently watch the clock. He was due to be off work in a few moments, and he was anxious to get home.

            The man noticed his occasional glances. "Eager to get home, eh?" he asked, looking up at the middle-aged man.

            "Oh yes. My wife just gave birth to a boy a few hours ago, and I've yet to get home to see my son," he confessed with a smile.

            "Congratulations," Herr Konstantin murmured, pulling a cigar from the pocket of his deep overcoat and handing it to Alois. "What are you planning to name him?"

            "My thanks. Adolf, I think--a good strong name for a good strong boy."

            "I'm sure he'll be just that. There, I'm done. Thanks for your time, Herr--I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch...?"

            "Hitler. Alois Hitler."

            An hour later, the peace of the office Alois Hitler had been so eager to leave was shattered by disjointed reports of some sort of fire near the river. The strange rumors even said that figures had been seen in the blaze--a monk, a winged girl... and a yellow-skinned demon.

LONDON. FOUR MONTHS AGO.

            "No, you don't understand. This stone's been in me family for generations, Stranger. I don't care if bleedin' Christ Himself took it, I'm getting 'er back."

            "I was not aware familial duty was one of your characteristics, John Constantine," replied his companion, with what might have been a smile in the shadows of his face.

            "Bollocks to family duty. No, I'm saying the bugger belongs to _me. Can't just have people stealing from me left and right now, can I? Bad for me reputation," said John, between a swallow of beer and a long draw on his cigarette._

            "I still do not see why this obligates me to help you. It is, after all, _your reputation."_

            "Yeah, and _my reputation occasionally comes in useful. Remember that bit with Tim--with the Hunter boy? In __Bewitched? When me bloody 'reputation' was the only thing kept me, Zatanna, and Tim hi'self from getting sliced into uncomfortably small strips? Like I said, useful, an' if you want the use of it again, you might help a bloke out here by dropping a hint or two."_

            A pause. "I do not know if you will... welcome this information."

            John took another swig of beer. "Get on with it, Stranger."

            "The Fatestone is on the moon."

            "Ah. Right. The moon." Constantine nodded, his eyes on the buxom barmaid who had just passed the table where the two men were sitting. 

"Wait. Did you just say the thing's on the bleedin' _moon?!?"_

JLA WATCHTOWER. TWO MONTHS AGO.

            "Really, Steel, it's incredible how much... well, _junk... we accumulate here in the Watchtower," the winged figure murmured to his colleague as they stood in one of the storage rooms of the JLA's moon base._

            Steel smiled behind his armor faceplate. "Part of the human condition, Zauriel. We mortals hoard things--maybe a deeply ingrained desire to, I dunno, surround ourselves with evidence of our accomplishments."

            Zauriel smirked. "Ah. I'll have to make a note of that in my studies of how odd you humans are. '...surround ourselves with evidence of our accomplishments.'"

            "Hey, I'm a engineer, not a philosopher. Anyways, I think most of this stuff is from past battles... yeah, here's that bionoid suit of armor Dr. Morrow sent against us. Here's the chunk of telepathic sentient rock that disguised itself as gold kryptonite... were you here for that one? Now _that was a pain, J'onn had to go into Superman's mind and convince him he still had his powers. Wally eventually sent some sort of special vibration through it to steal its speed--it's still alive and essentially unhurt, but takes centuries to form connections between its geosynapses. Bizarre."_

            "Sounds like. I must have missed that one. What's in the box over there?"

            "Hmm. Not sure, but it looks more recent than the other stuff. Yeah, this is from a few months ago... the Joker's diagrams for a world-wide tectonic collapse. Don't try to figure them out, you'll just get a headache. J'onn says they're fascinating reading... Hey look! The remnants of the Father Box that Darkseid sent here. I never did get around to prying that thing open--"

            "What. Is. _This?" Zauriel interrupted, lifting a blue gem about the size of a human eye._

            "Hm? Oh, that. Sapphire, I think. Some nutcase showed up about a month ago and said he'd stolen it from a magician. It was going to let him remake the world.

"Batman just stared at him for about ten seconds. Poor guy ended up wetting his pants, dropped the gem, and burst into tears. We never did find out where or who he got it from. Pretty though, isn't it?"

"It's magic," said Zauriel, staring into the azure heart of it.

"If you say so, Zauriel. More your field than mine... Uh. _Can it remake the world?"_

"I don't know," the angel said thoughtfully. "I don't... I'm not sure _what it is. There's a lot of power here.... but not a lot of purpose. It's not focused. Human magics--things like this--I don't really know a lot about. Hmmmm._

"You said Batman stopped the man who wielded this? I'd like to talk to him about it. He might not know anything more, but still..."

"Have fun, Z. Batman's not really the chatty, life-of-the-party type though, if you know what I mean."

"No, not really."

GOTHAM CITY, PRESENT. BLOOD'S APARTMENT.

            The apartment was filled with sounds of football--and the occasional, pillow-generated burp. Harry was lounged in a comfortable chair in front of the wide-screen TV, enjoying the game and a Budweiser beer with every ounce of his stuffing. For his part, Jason Blood was deep in a book that a Scottish druid had sent him, and it was a wonder either of them heard the knock at all.

            "Did you hear something, Jase?" Harry said, never taking his eyes off the Vikings' quarterback.

            "Hmm?"

            "I said, did you hear something--"

            _Knock knock, slightly louder this time._

            "Jase, I think somebody's at the--OH YEAH! INTERCEPTION!!!! Go, Packers!!"

            "Harry. I am _not going to ask you again to keep the noise down. I am attempting to study here--"_

            _Knock knock._

            "Is that someone at the door, Harry?"

            "Uh... ooh, _great pass... what was that, Jase? Hey, I think there's someone at the door, by the way."_

            "That's what I just--never mind." With an irritated sigh, Jason got up from his desk and headed for the door.

            _KNOCK KNOCK. "I'm coming, I'm coming, have a little patience," he muttered, preparing to be nasty to whoever happened to be on the other side of the door. He grabbed the knob and swung the door open to find... nothing._

            "What the...?" Jason stuck his head out into the hallway to find it completely empty. Slightly confused, he turned back to Harry to ask a question, but was interrupted by the knocking again, this time accompanied by a voice.

            "Excuse me. Is anybody home here? I _think I have the right floor..." the voice trailed off. Harry and Jason looked at each other, both trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. Then Jason walked to the balcony's sliding door and pushed aside the curtain._

            An angel was standing outside, hands pressed to the glass. He waved.

            "Wonderful," Jason muttered. "Harry, I've _talked to you about inviting people over..."_

"You wanna know what this reminds me of?" Harry asked as he watched Zauriel try to get through the doorway--wide and tall enough for a normal person to walk through with ease, but those heavenly wings were _big._

"No, not really," Jason said, wondering idly if angels ever got stuck under low bridges.

"That horrible Meg Ryan movie. Except Cage didn't have wings--but I guess it was already hokey enough without them. Of course, nobody cares about wings when they're looking at Meg--"

Zauriel finally managed to squeeze through. Once inside, there was more room for his feathered attachments, and the angel sighed with relief before holding out his hand to the occultist.

"You're Jason Blood, right? It's a pleasure. My name's Zauriel; I'm a member of--"

"The Justice League. I know. You've been in the news a few times. There are also several cults based around your existence that caused me a great deal of trouble some months ago," Blood said coolly, not shaking the proffered hand.

"Hey! Hey! I wanna meet the angel, Jase! Turn the chair around so I can see, willya?" With a sigh, the demonologist obliged his friend, introducing Harry Matthews to the bemused Zauriel--after which Harry immediately returned his attention to the game.

"He takes some getting used to," Jason said apologetically.

"Ah... right. Uh, anyways, I'm here because--"

"You want information on a magical relic of some sort," said Jason, sitting down and gesturing for the angel to do likewise.

Zauriel blinked. And he had thought Batman was brusque... "Well. Yes, actually...  Batman didn't mention you were psychic," the angel attempted to joke.

"I'm not. I do have precognizance... of a sort... certain things and events. Though this isn't one of them.

"My knowledge of the reason for your visit stems from the fact that, to be blunt, it's really the only reason the League calls on me. Or when some occult menace threatens, but then they generally prefer to go with Zatanna. She's more... wholesome, I suppose. Too often, _I'm the occult menace that threatens," he said with a bleak smile._

"Of course, now they have an angel, so I don't suppose they'll be asking for either of us half as much," he finished with faint amusement. "So. What do you need my professional opinion on?"

Zauriel blinked again. He had thought he was getting used to mortals, but this man... There was something unnerving about him. As he brought out the sapphire and handed it to the occultist, telling him about the circumstances of finding it, then going to Batman and finally being told to come here, he studied the human. A normal human...

Normal--on the surface. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that the eyes were just a bit too piercing, saw too much... And hadn't they been blue? Not red. 

Red--red sparks that shot out from the pupil to catch on fire. Red fire at the heart of things burning in parabolas of poetry and something that laughed to the beat of Hell's drums and stank of sulphur and blood. Crimson fire just barely concealed under the thin guise of flesh and humanity...

Zauriel found himself almost physically sick. He wanted to be outside, in the relatively clean air, away from this a man who, whatever he was, was clearly not a man. Disgust welled up in the angel as what he was facing dawned on him--a human who had bound himself to a demon, willingly entering into a covenant with something vile that fed on the flesh of infants and laughed at the screams of its victims. Evil lurked here, within arm's reach of one who had walked in the presence of God. It taunted him, the smoke of its flame choking him until he felt like throwing up--

"Are you all right?" The voice interrupted and brought him back to himself. He was _not in Hell, suffocated by smoke, but in a comfortable apartment. He was not facing a demon, but a man._

A man who housed a demon.

"Fine," he replied stiffly. "Just not used to..." _Hanging out with devils. "...Gotham."_

The man seemed to accept that as an answer and turned back to the gem, holding it up so that it caught the sunlight and gave it back out in an azure rainbow of light. "You're wondering whether this is a weapon, or dangerous if used as such? Don't bother. 

"This is something known as a Fatestone. The astral writing on it is in Atlantean. I don't know how familiar you are with that... It basically says that the stone will be present at three births of significance, if certain other factors are present. The children born under--under such signs, if you will--will have potential for either great evil or great good.

"That's about all I can tell you from such a cursory inspection, I think. If you'd like me to do some more research on this, I'm sure I can oblige the League though I really doubt it's significant. I've heard of this type of gem before--they're generally held to have been created shortly before the fall of Atlantis by a group of their eminent astrologers. Several have survived here and there, though I can't say I've ever actually seen one before." 

Here the occultist frowned with a slightly confused expression on his face. "At least, I don't think I have. Anyway, I can do further--"

"Thank you, but I don't really think that will be necessary," Zauriel interrupted coolly, rising from his chair. "You've been quite helpful already."

It was Jason's turn to blink, a bit surprised by the angel's sudden change in manner--friendly at first, then the look on his face as if he had stepped in the remains of a dead cat. Now he was cool and distant. Even something of anger was hinted at in the harsh clenching of his jaw, and the whiteness of his knuckles as the angel took back the gem.

_He senses Etrigan, no doubt, Blood thought to himself, wondering why the demon was so quiet. Angels didn't intimidate the rhymer at all--Jason had hazy memories of a battle against Remiel and Duma, Heaven's appointed rulers of Hell--and under normal circumstances, Etrigan would be practically screaming in his mind to be let out and torch the feathered idiot in front of him. It was nice that he wasn't, of course, but discomfiting too. He really hated it when Etrigan wasn't predictable._

The angel was headed toward the window. He hadn't offered to shake hands this time, and Blood felt an ironic smile creep to his face at the thought of Zauriel being as uncivil as he himself had been before.

"Feel free to call if you need anything more," he couldn't resist saying to the angel, once again squeezing through the window.

"I doubt there will be a need," Zauriel responded curtly, succeeding in achieving the balcony. Politeness prompted him to add, "Thank you anyway, for your help and the offer."

In a blur of pale skin and a flurry of those spectacular wings, he was off of the balcony in freefall. The wings spread further to catch the updraft and he left the city's old buildings and winter dirt below him, seemingly oblivious to the awed stares of Gothamites beneath.

Back in the apartment, Jason stared after the angel for some seconds, finally shaking his head and closing the door. The niggling itch at the back of his head warned him that this wasn't over... something more yet to come involving the angel... but it was more irritating than helpful. He sighed and turned away from the window, only to have his train of thought interrupted by the familiar voice.

**Did you miss me, dear friend?**

**I'm sure my absence was rough.**

**But it's come to an end--**

_Pity, snarled Jason inwardly, out of sorts after the encounter with the angel. The demon chuckled._

**Now don't get in a huff.**

**If you're kind and polite--treat this poor demon right--**

**I just may tell where I've been.**

Jason returned to his study and shut the door, to partially muffle the sounds of the football game. _And I care why? he retorted. Etrigan ignored him._

Affairs of note waking--and angels sides taking-- 

            **Likewise in the home of all sin.**

            All revolve 'round stone of blue-- 

**            Or rather, the children it leadeth to.**

**            The first was a saint, the second a devil**

**            This third time the charm, both sides say.**

**Both wish the playing field were much less level**

**            And so both the infant wish to sway.**

**            A few--very few--desire balance preserved**

**            And so would take the child's life**

**            Before it could achieve either evil or good**

**            And thus put an end to the endless strife.**

            Blood paused, digesting all the demon had just told him. _You're saying this... child has the potential to put an ultimate end to the conflict between Good and Evil? How can that be? If there's already been two children who didn't end the conflict--_

            **Things stand always at a one-for-one balance**

**            Like matter and its dark opposite.**

**            Neither side ever gains permanent advantage**

**            Equality's always been requisite.**

**            Example: For the evil of the Fall in the garden lost**

**            You have the good of the death of that Fool on the Cross...**

**            So on. For every action, as Newton said.**

**            But no longer. Equality's dead.**

**            The Stone warmed up on the first two brats**

**            Now the time's come, and that is that.**

**            Whichever way this third one chooses**

**            Shows which one wins, and which one loses.**

            Jason looked out the window over Gotham as Etrigan finished his explanation. A millennia and a half he'd had the Rhymer bound to his soul... and he still couldn't figure out when Etrigan was telling the truth and when he wasn't. It sounded very much like something the demon had made up. He'd done such things before--leading Jason on wild goose chases over half the world because it amused him to do so. The occultist kept his doubts to himself, at least as much as was possible with a demon in the head. 

_So what do you suggest we do about it, Etrigan?_

**Oh my, oh me--Blood asks _me for advice..?_**

**You've grown accustomed to me, indeed.**

**But why should I be free with help**

**When my other words you failed to heed?**

**No matter now. Things move anyhow**

**And we each will play our role.**

**The Church, the Cage, The Demon's rage**

**And an Angel to make the cast whole.**

**So whatever you do affects nothing at all**

**Lady Fate's already set--she lets the dice fall.**

**But how does she bet? Which face does she call**

**As the coin is called by gravity...?**

**I suppose we all must wait and see, the rhymer mused philosophically. Jason muttered his irritation to the world at large, then glanced at the clock.**

Time had passed in talking first to the angel, then the demon--it was already six-thirty. If he was going to attend the Museum's diamond exhibition, he'd better get ready...

"_Dona, are you __sure about this?" murmured the long-suffering Emilio to the door behind him as he shifted unhappily in his ill-fitting tuxedo._

"But of course, dear Emilio. All this business of late... demons and death... tiresome. All work and no play makes me a dull _signorina, no? This evening will be relaxing, pleasurable, and an excuse to dress up and make other women jealous. __Perfecto._

"Besides, this is going to be a diamond exhibition. The Americans have a delightful saying; 'diamonds are a girl's best friends.' After you three, of course.

"How do I look?" she finished, emerging from her room with a triumphant smile, and once again all three men silently thanked the saints for their assignments as Angelina Capella's bodyguards and assistants. 

The dress was a strapless, floor-length affair of sheer wine-red silk, with a slit up one leg to avoid leaving too much to the imagination. Capella's midnight hair was done up in a loose coiffure, one strand free to hang over her face just so. She was dressed to kill, and then some.

Her dark eyes sparkled with laughter as she watched her young men's reactions. They knew better than to open their mouths in anything but the most restrained of compliments, but their faces said it all. Delighted, she let out a low laugh and made the final preparations for the evening's events.

THE NEXT-ISSUE-BOX-THAT-BREATHED-FIRE: Okay, okay. This was a slow one, I know. I promise you people some action next issue. Diamonds! And if I can steal them from somewhere, a Batman villain or two! (Big if.)


	4. A Night to Remember, Part One: A Girl’s ...

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #4 ~ "A Night to Remember, Part One: A Girl's Best Friends"

by Dien

Story notes: Well, don't I feel stupid. I made poor Drew give me Mr. Freeze, then found out there's nothing in the comics to support his propensity for stealing diamonds... Screw it. I'm using the Victor Fries from the unspeakable movie--he wants diamonds!

And I apologize for having two Atlantean stones in the same story; it wasn't intentional. I just somehow ended up with both being from Atlantis. The Source alone knows why... It's simple, though: the SAPPHIRE is the Fatestone, the DIAMOND'S just some powerful relic thingy.

For the Harry fans, I apologize. He's not in this issue. Patience.

There will be a real fight scene next issue, I promise.

The evening was cold and fine, Gotham's dirty skies clearing enough to let the light of the stars through--even if the minds of the mortals below were on other lights than celestial ones.

Headlights of limousines and taxicabs, reflecting on asphalt still wet from afternoon rain. Lights gleamed off of the sequined dresses of women. Strobes and floodlights lit up the front of Gotham City's Museum of Natural History, and the beautiful people milled about in a glow of their own as they waited for the doors to be opened.

Unable to compete with the modern exhibits in Gotham's newer museums and galleries, the somewhat outdated and stodgy Natural History had been, a year earlier, on the brink of shutting its doors. Five of the city's wealthiest sons, among them Bruce Wayne, had come to the rescue with donations totaling $6 million dollars, and the museum had spent most of the last year closed for repairs and renovations. Tonight, however, was the Event: the much-anticipated re-opening of the doors. An exhibition of the world's most famous diamonds was to be the focus of the evening, and Gotham's most famous had responded in kind. The sidewalk in front of the building was packed, with more people arriving every moment.

Jason Blood sighed as he glanced at the crowd between him and the door. He would have liked to have been able to examine the Atlantean stone before the exhibition began, but now getting in was practically impossible. He'd just have to wait like everyone else.

"Blood! Jason Blood! My God, man, haven't seen you in Gotham in ages!" A hand was pulling aggressively at his shoulder, the voice accompanied by cigar smoke. Jason exhaled deeply, put on the smile he reserved for society functions, and turned to face the speaker.

The shorter, stouter man facing him with a trophy supermodel on his arm was one of those thankfully few but obnoxious people who is intentionally irritating all the time--the ones who laugh too loudly and long and always presume more familiarity than they should, largely because they can get away with it. Jason searched his memory for a name to link with the smug face and pale blue eyes. 

"Good evening, Mr. Haight," he said with little warmth behind his greeting.

"Ah, come on, Jason. Call me Charlie. You're too serious, you know that? You know what they say, all work and no play...

"Speaking of which, I've got a nice little bit of land upstate. Some of the boys--Krol, Drexel, Jackson--and I are going to head up for a little pheasant shooting. You interested in coming?"

"Thank you, but no. I'm afraid I've got plans that weekend," Jason said curtly.

"But--I didn't say which... Uh, anyways, whaddaya think about this National History thing, huh? I hear Wayne isn't even going to be here--off in California or something. He sent that fellow of his, Fox." 

Blood pointedly looked elsewhere in the crowd, but the banker was either exceptionally dense or exceptionally tenacious. He kept talking.

"Not that it matters so much on something like this, of course... but he even has the man take his place on Chamber of Commerce meetings and things. I mean, really, Fox is good enough for one of... them, I suppose, but... well, you know, a man just isn't comfortable with their kind. You know."

_Not only is he stupid, but he's a bigot as well, Jason thought to himself in annoyance. __Gotham, behold your best and brightest. He amused himself with mental images of Etrigan ripping the banker to pieces._

"Charlie, it's cold out here," whined the blond model. "How soon can we go inside?"

"Will you be quiet? Can't you see I'm talking to somebody here, Mindy?"

"It's Cindy."

"Whatever. Jason--"

"You'd like me to meet your companion for the evening? But of course," Jason said smoothly, turning to the girl, who was at least three inches taller than Charles Haight. "Cindy, is it? Charmed." She simpered perfectly as he politely bowed. Nonchalantly, Jason turned back to Haight. "By the way, how is Mrs. Haight? And the children. Twelve and eight, aren't they?"

Haight's face and bulldog neck flushed red. "Uh... they're fine. Hey, look, I just saw someone over there I needed to talk to about--"

"Oh, don't apologize. I wouldn't dream of keeping you from more important conversations. Enjoy your evening. Wonderful meeting you, Cindy."

Haight and his companion disappeared into the crowd, the banker visibly disgruntled. Blood smiled. Half the men here had women not their wives accompanying them, of course; the unspoken rule was not to bring it up. Hopefully, Haight would leave him alone for the rest of the evening.

The occultist returned to skimming the crowd, placing faces with names and facts. Another car pulled up to the curb, this time a shiny, familiar Bugatti. Jason watched as Goon Number One opened the door for the passenger to exit, wondering if it was who he thought it was.

Angelina Capella emerged with her dress and lips the color of wine, drawing glances and discussion from the crowd as the society people wondered who the newcomer was. Jason was oblivious to the gossip as he shouldered his way through the crowd to reach her.

Her dark eyes were scanning the crowd, the familiar amused smile playing on her lips, when she saw him and did a double take.

"Signore Jason," she said warmly, giving him a genuine smile as he came near. (Behind her, Francisco and Emilio sulked.)

"Angelina. You are... you look... _divina," he said helplessly, unable to keep his usual impassive expression. This time, he ignored the guards' glares and kissed her proffered hand._

"Why, thank you, Jason," she replied with a tilt of her head and very faint blush that made her seem suddenly younger than she was.

"I came expecting only diamonds and find something infinitely more breathtaking," he murmured. Angelina blushed even more, but rolled her eyes. 

"You _are Italian, __mi amico. How else to account for such honeyed words?"_

"I'm actually English by heritage. We're not supposed to be very romantic. I suppose you just bring out the worst in me," he said lightly. "Would you permit to be your escort for the evening, signorina Angelina Capella?"

Emilio stepped forward, Francisco almost on his heels. "She already _has an escort, signore," Emilio said through gritted teeth and a smile that was blatantly insincere._

Angelina laughed softly. "Emilio, darling, you sound so protective. Don't worry so much. Signore Blood isn't going to hurt me. Are you, Jason?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"You see? And he knows all these people here, so he can be my guide and introduce me to everyone. It is perfect. You two just relax and enjoy yourselves. Go charm some of the American girls off their feet."

Francisco and Emilio shared a look with each other. Emilio nodded, then said heavily, "As you wish, _dona..." The two then sent a look towards Blood that said very clearly what __their wishes in the matter were, and that most of those wishes involved broken bones. Jason smiled brightly at them._

Behind the four figures standing there, the crowd suddenly buzzed with noise. The doors were being opened.

"Shall we?" Blood asked theatrically, holding out his arm to Angelina

"We shall," she answered, slipping her hand through his arm. With the rest of the crowd, they made their way into the Museum.

Angelina struggled to keep a straight face as they passed through the doors. Poor Emilio. Her guards were charming, of course, and perfectly loyal to her, but there were times they went over the top. And their expressions... she'd have to make sure she didn't leave Jason alone with them during the course of the evening.

_Now isn't this a happy coincidence? she wondered to herself. Had part of her desire to attend this evening been out of the hope she might run into him? Capella considered the possibility for an instant, then lightly dismissed it. She did not practice self-analyzation on herself, as a rule._

Though she had to admit her reactions were decidedly out of character. She was a woman used to praise and flattery, even to accepting them as her due. Yet she had blushed like a schoolgirl at one chaste kiss and a compliment. What _was coming over her? Was it possible that she was starting to like signore Blood? __Ridiculoso, she scoffed to herself. She'd only met him twice._

Her musings were diverted as they passed a uniformed security guard in deep conversation with a slim, small dark-haired man who looked important and competent in his crisp tuxedo.

"Don't worry, Mr. Dipsas, sir," the guard was saying. "We've got just about the best security set up here you can get without calling in a SWAT team."

"This is Gotham City,  Mr. Hanley," the slender man was saying. His voice was dry and precise, and Angelina shivered unexpectedly at the sound of it. "A town renowned for the large number of maniacs it contains... many who would face much worse than a SWAT team for the chance to obtain some of the wealth here tonight. Did Commissioner Gordon ever get back to you on our request for back-up?"

"GCPD called back telling us, and I quote, 'Anyone fool enough to hold a diamond display in Gotham City can provide their own damn back-up,' " the guard said apologetically, and then Jason and Angelina were out of ear-shot as they moved further into the building with the press of people.

"Jason," Angelina whispered to her companion. "Earn your keep as my escort. Who was that man... a Mr. Dipsas?"

"Dipsas?" For a second, her companion seemed privately amused, then said, "He's the current curator for the Museum. He owns one of the diamonds here tonight, so he's understandably concerned about the security, for more reasons than just his job."

"Oh." Angelina considered, then shivered again, remembering the way the man held his head and moved, something about his dark eyes and his movements that unnerved her. "Is he... did he... there's something strange about him."

Again she caught a faint amused smile on his face for a moment, but all he said was, "He has a reputation for being one of the shrewdest men in Gotham. He made a fortune several times over working for Fortune 500 companies as a negotiator... supposedly he's hell to face across the bargaining table. Then, suddenly, he dropped out of the high-finance world to come run the GMNH... for whatever his reasons.

"He's ruthless and cold-blooded in business dealings, but not really that bad to talk to. I can introduce you later, if you'd like."

Capella made a face. "Thank you, but no. I know quite enough ruthless men as it is." He laughed, and everything was back to normal, the curious director forgotten.

The evening progressed in an enjoyable whirl. They and the rest of Gotham's finest were ushered into the Museum's atrium, with its new all-glass ceiling. Everybody obligingly oohed and aahed over the new look, including the dark-blue velvet hangings that lined all the walls.

The room was filled with tables and chairs, some crisply dressed caterers standing by the back wall. People sat and waited for the inevitable speeches.

Former Gotham Mayor Krol spoke a few words and gave a toast to the five Gothamites who had helped fund the rescue of the Museum. Lucius Fox, here representing Bruce Wayne, then took the podium to speak.

Blood and Capella listened politely to the speeches, though Angelina privately thought her companion looked bored out of his mind. She sipped the champagne that had been at all the tables and looked around for Emilio and Francisco. They were standing on the back wall, Gianni having joined them after parking the car. All three were looking daggers at Jason's back. She sighed with a rueful smile, and turned her attention back to the front.

"...and so, it is my sincere privilege to welcome you all to Gotham's new and improved Museum of National History. It is even more my privilege to introduce this night's opening display of... 'Diamonds: The Eternal Gems!'" finished Lucius Fox. It was the signal for the assistants around the room to pull the cords. The velvet curtains pulled away to reveal the room to be much bigger than supposed before, the extra space now occupied with the diamond exhibitions.

The crowd of Gotham's rich and privileged burst into applause. Now free to look around, they rose from their seats and began to stroll in little cliques around the room.

Angelina smiled and stood, gesturing Jason to get up. "Come on, let's go look," she said excitedly.

"Women and their desire for jewels, where does it end?" he asked the ceiling in mock hopelessness. She laughed and dragged him by the arm towards the nearest case.

The diamonds were exquisite, of course; some of the world's finest from both private and public collections were here on loan. Capella was enraptured.

"Oh, _amico, look at this one," she breathed in delight, tugging at his sleeve. When he didn't respond, she looked up to see him scanning the crowd. "__Regina coeli! What is wrong with you, Jason? Here we are, faced with the world's most magnificent treasures, and you don't even look at them. Shameful."_

He smiled in apology. "Sorry. I'm looking for one in particular I was told would be here. I think it's over there on the west side. If you're still looking at these, do you mind if I...?"

Angelina rolled her dark eyes. "You could at least have flattered me again by telling me you were looking at me instead of the diamonds or something. Go, unromantic Englishman, go."

Jason arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "I can see you're the high-maintenance type... I'll have to come up with some more compliments later. "

"_Corpus de Cristo. Go before I hit you," she hissed in mock anger. He laughed, and made his way across the floor to the other side of the room. Angelina shook her head at the man, then returned her attention to the next diamond in the line._

While not as big or as spectacularly cut as some of the others, it was certainly unique, as it was tinted with a dark red hue that made it seem almost to burn. She instantly thought of a stone soaked in blood, and shivered deliciously at the thought. The placard next to the gem read 'The Ersatz Ruby' and said it had been discovered in Greece. "_Magnifico," she murmured to herself._

"It is, isn't it?" said an emotionless voice close by her, and she started involuntarily. Capella was not used to people sneaking up on her. She turned to face the speaker and found herself staring into the thin, saturnine countenance and dark reptilian eyes of Nicolas Dipsas.

Angelina almost started back again, but was conscious of the unblinking eyes on her and regained her composure. "Mister Dipsas, yes?" she asked, attempting the English again after talking in Italian with Blood all evening. "You must forgive my speaking. I am not fully fluent in the English."

"Quite all right, _signorina," he said in that same dry voice, slipping into Italian. "I happen to know your language, so we may speak in that if you prefer."_

"You are too kind. May I compliment you on the arrangements for the evening? The gallery is beautiful," she said, smiling brilliantly and turning the charm on at full volume. It hadn't failed her yet.

Dipsas, however, seemed unmoved. "It is nothing. Save your compliments until the evening is over and nothing has gone wrong."

She forced bright laughter she did not feel. "You sound so pessimistic, _signore!"_

He shrugged noncommittally. "There's a lot that can go wrong. Calculated risks. Acceptable odds, but not favorable. You were examining the Ersatz Ruby?"

"Ahh, yes," she murmured, still not at ease with man's demeanor. "It... is very beautiful! Is the red tint natural, or--"

"Completely. It is a very old diamond, and has also been known as the Drop of Blood, or the Eye of the Serpent. Do you know much about serpents, _signorina?"_

"Oh no. Not really.. no," she said awkwardly.

"Pity. The Eye of the Serpent is my humble contribution to the night's display... I have a small collection, though this is by far my finest piece."

She tried the smile again. "Well, it is spectacular, _maestro. I--"_

            Their conversation was interrupted by a woman's horrified scream. They and everyone else turned startled eyes towards the sound, to see many men with ski caps over their heads and guns in their hands. One was holding his weapon to the forehead of a businessman who had had the misfortune to be standing near the door. As everyone gasped, even more masked men poured into the atrium through the three entrances, handling their guns with the assurance of men who knew what they were doing. A few of the rich citizens began to scream and headed for doors, only to find whichever way they turned was cut off.

            From behind one of the groups of criminals, a tall figure emerged. The Gothamites gasped again, for no one in that city could have failed to recognize Mr. Freeze, one of the Batman's many foes. Imposing in his unique body armor, he stared around the room in silence.

            Angelina's three guards instantly looked across the room to her for guidance, but she shook her head, mutely answering their question. All three were armed, of course, but they would be of little use against the thirty or more armed men that now filled the building. Her look plainly said not to attract any more attention than necessary. 

            After staring at them until they subsided, Capella looked around for Jason, scanning among the diamond cases but seeing only the frightened faces of wealthy Gothamites--with one exception. Mr. Dipsas, next to her, had the closest thing to an expression she had seen on his face all night--and it was one of profound annoyance.

            Stepping forward, he said in a deadly quiet voice, "What is the meaning of this intrusion, gentlemen?"

            Freeze's icy stare fixed on the slight man, a faint sardonic smile on his face. "'The meaning,' of course, is to acquire for myself some of these treasures that have been hoarded selfishly until now, as I have a much greater usage in mind for them. Also, my assistants have a desire to personally enrich themselves by removing the citizenry here of some of their valuables... though if we encounter no resistance, they will be allowed to leave with that most precious of valuables, their lives."

            "Take the diamonds?" Dipsas echoed angrily. "You cannot."

            Victor Fries frowned. The little man he was facing was dense... Mutely, he held out a hand to one of his henchmen, who gave him a gun. Freeze lifted it and pointed it at the single piece of glass that made up the ceiling.

            "Oh no," muttered Dipsas.

            The trigger was pulled, the bullet fired; the stunning roof shattered spectacularly. The people beneath screamed again as the million shards fell down upon them. Those lucky enough to be out of the center of the hall hugged the walls closer. Those still in the center dived under the tables.

            "Calculated risks...." Dipsas sighed sadly. Freeze turned and pointed the muzzle of the gun at him. "That, sir, is what happens to people who get in my way.... not unlike your woefully few guards outside."

            "We heard no sounds of conflict," Dipsas said unhappily. Freeze looked bored and said, "They're called silencers. Perhaps you've heard of them.

            "Now, _enough with the chitchat. Your guests will now start taking off anything expensive they're wearing.... while __you can put the diamonds in a bag for us." Freeze took a velvet sack from one of his thugs and tossed it at the director. "Get to work... or we start shooting into the crowd."_

            Nicolas Dipsas distastefully eyed the sack at his feet for a long moment, then looked at Freeze and said flatly, "You will regret this." The director then picked up the bag and turned to the first of the cases, digging in his pocket for the keys. Mutely, the crowd moved where Freeze's henchmen told them to, and started taking off jewelry.

            Angelina tried to keep her face impassive as she too removed her valuables. Though disgruntled at the loss, she took off her ruby earrings and the emerald ring on her left hand. One of the ski-cap-masked men watched her critically as she did so, then held out his gloved hand for the jewelry. She sighed and gave them to him.

            As she was about to move on, he reached out with the muzzle of the gun and stopped her. "I don't think so, baby," his voice growled from under the mask. "You've still got a necklace on."

            Her hand flew instinctively to the silver chain and crucifix around her neck, so long worn she didn't even think of it as jewelry anymore.

            "This is... this was a gift," she said in a low, tense voice, struggling with the English. "I will not give it up."

            It seemed like he was grinning, under the mask. "You'll give up whatever we tell you to, sweetheart. _Comprende? Yeah," he went on, his eye-slits moving down her body, "__anything... we tell you." The hand holding the jewels moved up to cup her chin. "You'd make a great hostage for when we make our escape, baby."_

            "Get your hands off me," she hissed, her martial training running through her mind alongside images of his covered head hitting cement. Hard.

            "Benson?" came Freeze's voice. "Is there a problem over there? You're holding up the line of rich citizens eager to hand over their valuables."

            Benson's eyes, small and beady behind the holes in the mask, glared at her, then at his boss. Angelina could sense the beginnings of tension here, and could only hope the conflict played out in her favor.

            And then the demon arrived, and everything went to hell.

            The Atlantean diamond had been there as he expected. Blood had been considering using a small bit of sorcery to unlock the case and look at it further, but decided the risks weren't worth it. He could always ask Nicolas to let him examine it later.

            He had been ready to head back over to Angelina's side when he had one of his occasional flashes of precognizance, a side effect of the long-ago bonding between him and the Demon. An image of armed men bursting in through the doors had filled his mind for a second.

            When it passed, Jason had quickly made his way to one of the small corridors that branched off from the main room. While there was no exit from this hallway, if it became necessary to cast a spell he at least had a semi-hidden vantage point.

            He reached the hallway not a moment too soon. The woman's scream filled the air, and he watched mutely as the scene unfolded, wincing slightly at the curator's stubbornness. He had known the man for a number of years, but admitted Dipsas could go over the top. Blood winced again as the expensive ceiling was destroyed in an explosion of glass.

            This wasn't going well. Blood weighed the merits of getting involved. The situation was not the type he generally interfered in... a robbery with no supernatural motivation or villain was something the police or Batman could handle.

But on the other hand, Mr. Freeze would take the Atlantean relic. Not good. Of course, he could probably find some way to contact this Freeze person on the black market and purchase it--money wasn't an issue. 

But then again, what if someone... not Freeze... but someone aware of the real potential of the gem got to him first and bought it? Then there could be a problem.

He shifted mentally back and forth for a few moments, his eyes scanning the crowd as he searched for some answer to his inner dilemma. It jumped out at him loud and clear, as he saw the thug take Angelina's jewelry, then touch her face.

_How dare that piece of Gotham gutter trash lay a finger on her. Blue eyes glaring in anger, he whispered the words._

"Gone, gone the form of man

"And rise the demon Etrigan...!"

            And it began again. The transformation, the painful shredding as his body was sent across dimensions into Hell... as Etrigan took his place here on earth. Smoke emanated from the small rifts in reality where the change took place, and when it cleared, the Demon stood there.

            Etrigan grinned, razor teeth glinting like the glass shards strewn across the room, and leapt to the attack. The man Benson was first to go. Etrigan grasped the wrist of the hand touching Capella and, as easily as one breaks a toothpick, snapped it in two. The man howled, then shut up abruptly as he was backhanded across the room with enough force to break his neck.

            "What the _hell is __that...?" Freeze whispered, even as his men shouted and drew their guns. Etrigan took a long look at them and laughed as they opened fire on him._

**            "Men of crime, a man of cold**

**            "He steals the gems, and they steal gold**

**            "But now a new thief here is lured**

**            "Her name is Death. Her touch is sure.**

**            "They wield their toys of flash and fire**

**            "But achieve naught, save my ire**

**            "'Tis not, this night, their first mistake--**

**            "No.... that was angering the snake.**

**            "But his fangs he yet conceals**

**            "So I shall be the one who deals**

**            "The card of fate, the dreadful hand**

**            "Of justice and of reprimand."**

Etrigan ignored the bullets that bounced off him as he moved towards Mr. Freeze and his henchmen, the ordinary citizens crawling under tables and rushing for the door as they wondered why it couldn't have just been Batman, for God's sake?

Angelina's guards had been on the other side of the room until now and had followed her orders not to attract attention, but they now took advantage of the chaos to rush to her side. She was staring, fascinated, at the form of Etrigan, only briefly looking up as they approached.

"Look, _mi amicos. Behold our quarry!" she breathed, the rapt and predatory look on her face reminding her guards that she was not considered the finest hunter of the Order of Jesuits for nothing._

The men looked at the demon casually shrugging off close-range gunfire, and shared apprehensive glances with each other. Gianni reached reluctantly inside his tuxedo for his gun as Francisco asked slowly, "Do you... ah... want us to attack him now, _dona?"_

            Capella did not seem to hear as she watched the fight, entranced. Finally she said, "What? Oh... no. Not now. We do not have the right weapons here. But this is a good chance to see how our prey fights and moves."

            The three relaxed. They were not going to have to fight the thing, at least not right now, and lose as badly as the men who were currently doing so....

ELSEWHERE (Boy, do I love that word!)

            Zauriel stared at the stars overhead, reading the messages they sent to each other in spectrums human eyes could not detect, and heaved a faint sigh. He never really regretted giving up his heavenly position and coming to Earth, but there were times when he was more homesick than at others.

            He was sitting on a ledge of the roof of Gotham's downtown Clock Tower, one hand idly fingering the Fatestone. After the earlier, unhappy conversation with the demonologist, he had not left the city, but simply flown around for a few hours, trying to quiet his thoughts.

            There was so much evil here. It hurt him, made him sick to see the sort of things people did to each other and to themselves. He was becoming used to facing Evil on a cosmic scale in his adventures with the League, but just seeing ordinary people capable of such monstrosity...

            _Humanity, what a mess of contradictions you are, the angel mused sadly. __So full of the potential to be incredible... so often choosing the downward path instead. _

            _Why? Why is there such hate and greed and anger in their souls, that makes them lash out at one another and--_

            The thought never completed itself, as a strange and unnatural darkness reached out to cover him suddenly. His consciousness wavered for a second, surprise briefly registering on his features, then the struggle to stay awake was simply too great... his thoughts descended into shadows and oblivion.

            ...

Drifting... a faint roaring noise in his ears... louder and louder...

            Zauriel's eyes flickered open to see the streets of Gotham rushing up terribly fast to meet him. The roaring noise was the wind, moving past his ears--the cold bite of it had revived him just in time. Instantly, he spread his wings to stop his headlong fall, catching an updraft only mere feet from the asphalt street below. 

            Shaken by the close call, he landed on the rooftop of a nearby building and tried to figure out what in the name of the Presence had just happened. He had been... on the Tower... and then attacked. Somehow, by something magical. It had made him fall asleep and, unconscious, he had fallen from the ledge. What was going on?

            Deeper and more real at the moment than the mystery was the realization that now pervaded every fiber of his being._ As he had woken to the shock of falling, as he had seen the hard streets approaching rapidly, an entirely new sensation had gripped him._

            _Fear. The remembrance of it was terrifying even in retrospect--the unreasoning panic that had flooded his limbs and turned them to stone, the fright that had gripped his mind in a vise. The coppery tang of it in his mouth was still fresh. __Fear, I know you now. In the Name of the Presence... how do the mortals stand it?_

            He looked in wonder at his trembling hands. This too was new. He held them up where he could see them better. And it was then that he realized they were empty.

            The Fatestone was gone.

THE NEXT-ISSUE-BOX-THAT-ORDERED-ANCHOVIES-ON-ITS-PIZZA: Hey, I think I'm finally getting into the hang of this. Anyway, next issue will have Mr. Freeze vs Etrigan... and Harry for all of ya who missed him this time... and maybe more stuff about Angelina, now that we kind of know why she's here. So, who mugged the angel? Who's Nicolas Dipsas? Are Jason and Angelina ever gonna K-I-S-S? Answers soon. Maybe.


	5. A Night to Remember, Part Two: Fire And ...

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #5 ~ "A Night to Remember, Part Two: Fire And Ice"

by Dien

Story notes: Angelina briefly quotes from Psalm 119. Also, much thanks to Drew; he can now have Freeze back. See? I didn't kill him.

            Freeze watched first in growing disgruntlement, then the beginnings of fear as the.... creature generally demolished his men. They were all thugs, of course, and he didn't really give a damn what happened to them, but still--the evening was not going well.

            On the very loose network that existed between Gotham's many criminals, Victor Fries had heard word of the Joker being up to something on the other side of town. Good. If that maniac kept the Bat busy, he could do what was needed tonight. It would have been perfect.

            And then this. This thing, this monster, this... demon? was literally tearing up his henchmen. Well, whatever the thing was, it'd soon learn that Mr. Freeze was not a man to piss off. Freeze drew his favorite gun from his personal arsenal.

            "Eat ice, freak," he muttered under his breath, aiming and firing just as the demon punched another of his men into unconsciousness, if not death.

            The chilling beam shot forth with concussive force to hit Etrigan, advanced science meeting infernal flesh. The Demon snarled in annoyance as it struck, then in real anger and surprise as he was encased in the abnormally hard ice. It spread quickly and soon his entire form was lost to ice. Mr. Freeze frowned; it was supposed to actually turn the target to ice, but perhaps this demon had some invulnerability going for him. Whatever--he was now invulnerable under three feet of ultra-hard frozen water.

            "So much for poetry-spouting freaks," Freeze muttered into the suddenly quiet room as the citizens warily looked up from the floor and his dazed men found their weapons and/or held their wounds. Freeze pursed in lips as he did a quick count of the remaining men left to him.

            The thing had killed seven of his men. Fine; twenty-three was more than enough to get on with it and get the hell out of here. Well, twenty if he didn't count the badly wounded. His calculations were interrupted by one of his men.

            "Boss... uh... what the hell was that?"

            "Not Batman, that's for damn sure," one of them muttered to himself.

            "What's it matter?" Freeze snapped. "It's not going anywhere right now, is it?" he said, gesturing to the large block of ice in which the figure stood frozen. His men laughed nervously. 

"That's for sure, boss."

            "Glad we've got that settled. Okay, this was an interruption--and one we didn't expect--but we're still here to do a job. Let's get back to it."

            "Man, we lost some friends to that... thing," one of his ski-masked henchmen muttered, fingering his gun. "Seven or eight guys, and we just let it go at that, huh?"

            "That just means you get a bigger share of the profit, doesn't it?" Freeze retorted. "And if you have any suggestions about getting rid of him beyond his current status, feel free. I notice your guns weren't doing a lot of good.

            "Now come on. We still have many pretty diamonds and such to... hmm, liberate."

            That was the needed impetus. With a few dark glares at the ice-bound and quiescent figure, the men nevertheless returned to collecting jewelry and wallets from the frightened people.

            Freeze sighed and looked around for the little director. If the man had gotten away in the chaos, he was going to be irritated. But no, there was the curator, standing still and staring at the formerly demonic ice cube.

            Victor Fries walked over and snapped his fingers in front of the man's face and unblinking eyes. Dipsas started and looked up at him.

            "Sorry to interrupt your moment of deep philosophy, friend," Freeze growled. "You still have a few diamonds to gather for me. Get back to it."

            He was unprepared for the look of pure, cold venom the small man shot him, but Dipsas turned without comment back to the diamond cases, leaving Freeze wondering if he had imagined it. Then the curator said conversationally, "You really have no idea what sort of hell you're in for, do you? I almost pity you, you over-muscled, larcenous piece of--"

            Freeze casually swung out with one armored fist and caught Dipsas on the side of the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. "Listen, little man. I came here to rob you, not get insulted by you. 

"I don't like you. I really don't, and I can't figure out why. However, I'm really not in the mood to think about it much when it would be considerably easier to leave you as cool as Caped Crusader: the Freaky Version over there. Right now, you're alive because I'd like you to unlock the diamond cases, so I don't have to break them open and set off alarms. Don't trespass on my goodwill."

One of the curator's slim, clever hands reached up, almost in disbelief, to touch the blood at his temple. Silently, Dipsas got back to his feet and resumed unlocking the cases, looking anywhere but at Victor Fries.

The criminal smiled, glad he had gotten his point across. He turned back to the rest of the room, then stopped at a noise from the direction of the frozen demon. A faint cracking noise...

"Not. Possible," he growled to himself, turning.

But, of course, it was. Hairline fractures began to appear over the icy form, then widened to larger and larger cracks, steam hissing and escaping from the openings. Freeze's men looked nervously between their boss and the captive demon. Freeze just scowled and drew a bigger gun.

            The ice finally erupted in an explosion of fire. The yellow figure of Etrigan burst forth, his eyes burning with crimson light. Little tongues of flame escaped from the corners of his mouth as he grinned at the leader of his enemies.

            **"A bard of your kind, mortal, once wrote a phrase**

**            "That I've often pondered the wisdom of.**

**            "'Twas, 'Lord, what fools these mortals be,'**

**            "And truly, the hand doth fit the glove.**

**            "Think you that ice, that chill and frost**

**            "Can hold a demon, damned and lost?**

**            "Still, your toys amuse, you make me smile...**

**            "Humans. Such clever gnats, with so much guile!**

**            "Why, I salute thee, mankind!**

**            "With your tricks and plots you shine!**

**            "Hell need not strive to slay you--**

**            "On you own, you do just fine.**

**            "Of course, I still shall fight this battle--**

**            "Begin! Enough of this prattle!"**

            Etrigan laughed and once again emanated hellfire in a devastating arc.

            In fury, Freeze backhanded one of his own men who was trying to run from the flames. "All of you, get back here! You think I'm paying you to run at the first little fight?!" His words had no effect, and his hired thugs, if anything, ran faster. Etrigan seemed to enjoy this, leaping after the nearest one to land with taloned hands and deadly force.

            "I guess it's like the man says: you want something done, you just have to do it yourself," Mr. Freeze said grimly. He aimed carefully with his new weapon and sent a barrage of needle-sharp, foot-long icicles towards the rampaging demon.

            The first round hit the big-eared head accurately enough, for all the good it did as they bounced off and shattered. Etrigan shook his head to clear the stinging, then turned and gestured with one clawed finger. A wave of flame shot out and consumed the second volley of missiles mid-air.

            **"Sir, your first attempt was much the better.**

**            "This try smacks of desperation.**

**            "But chin up! Stay strong! Be of good cheer!**

**            "And use your imagination." **

**            To his credit, Freeze tried to do just that, wracking his brain for any other way to attack. Fighting the police and even Batman is one thing.... but what the hell is a guy supposed to do against something that is a) invulnerable b) superstrong and can c) breathe magical fire?**

            "Boss..." one of his men said next to him, tapping him on the shoulder. "This thing's insane. We need to get the hell outta Dodge, boss."

            Freeze nodded absently, watching morbidly as the Demon neatly decapitated yet another one of his henchmen. He shook his head again. Tonight was not a good night...

            "Cut our losses. You're right. Men!" he shouted to his remaining troops, most of whom were already at the doors. "Retreat! Meet back at the base in twenty!" Victor Fries then began to take his own advice, heading for the door.

            **"Ah, ah, such bad manners, my icy friend**

**            "To crash a party, then leave prematurely?**

**            "It will not do. You must stay 'till the end**

**            "So we can get acquainted, surely." With that, Etrigan picked up a nearby table and casually flung it at Freeze's back, revealing the couple beneath it who had been cowering in relative safety: Mr. Haight and companion.**

            Etrigan grinned broadly down at them as the table hit Freeze's body armor, the furniture coming out the worse in the confrontation. Freeze stumbled, however, and turned to face his attacker, realizing with fear that he might not be able to escape after all.

            **"Good evening, Mr. Haight! **

**            "I hope you're enjoying the fight?**

**            "Well, you'll get to see it all up close...**

**            "You really _should have stayed home tonight!"_**

**            Etrigan lifted the banker one-handed and sent him, screaming, in the same direction as the table.**

            Freeze might not be the equal of the monster he faced, but he was no slouch either. He quickly brought one of his special weapons to bear, and froze the man flying towards him in mid-scream.

            The block of ice formerly known as Charles Haight hit the ground and shattered almost as spectacularly as the ceiling had.

            **"Oops. My apologies, dear girl, it seems I've robbed you of your date.**

**            "Well, I somehow doubt you'll miss the late great Mister Haight.**

**            "Now, if you'll excuse me...? I mustn't make the iceman wait."**

            The demon gave the blonde a parting, toothy smile, then once more attacked.

            But Mr. Freeze had taken advantage of Etrigan's pause to admire his handiwork. A nearby supporting pillar and what was left of the roof above it were now gleaming ice. Freeze pulled out the handgun he still held and fired its remaining bullets into the ice.

            Even more property damage ensued, as the pillar splintered and broke, bringing down the remaining portions of the roof and burying Etrigan under a mix of ice, cement, and rubble. Freeze knew a good thing when he saw it, and ran for the exit amid the chaos of the final collapse.

            Struggling under the falling rubble, Etrigan snarled as he saw his foe escaping, then shrugged. It had been fun, but hardly worth pursuing further. His work here was done, especially considering he had helped contribute to some $6 million dollars worth of property damage...

            **"Gone, gone, o Etrigan,**

**            "And rise once more the form of man!"**

            The transformation was hidden by the cloud of dust and debris filling the air. Etrigan left this mortal plane to make way for his human jailer, who found himself back, once more, on Earth... in the middle of falling ceiling, ice and masonry. Coughing in the dusty air, Jason silently cursed the Demon and dove for cover under the nearest of the tables.

            Eventually, as the hail of detritus slowed then stopped, the chaos quieted down to mere disorder. The dazed Gothamites crawled out from under furniture and other semi-safe places to stare at each other. Fine suits, tuxedoes, and three-hundred dollar dresses were covered in glass (or ice) shards and cement dust, or, occasionally, blood where the wearers of the garments had been injured in the crossfire. The Museum's beautiful inlaid marble floor looked like a war zone.

            Angelina Capella had been one of those closest to the ruined area, yet was relatively unharmed... for one simple reason. As the ceiling had begun its rumbling, icy collapse, Emilio had thrown himself on top of her, knocking her to the floor and shielding her with own body.

            Her protection had not been bought cheaply.

            Angelina struggled to sit up, the limpness of the body on top of her not registering. A quick glance behind her showed Francisco and Gianni managing to stand, both wounded but not severely. Who knew where Jason was, but she couldn't deal it right now. She turned her attention back to Emilio.

            A piece of cement the size of a man's fist had hit the back of his head, and as she touched his dark curls, her fingers came away wet. Sudden apprehension set in, and she said softly, "Emilio?

            "Emilio!" An edge in her voice, panic. She struggled to turn him over, refusing to look at the dark stains that spread over much of his tuxedo. When she did get him onto his back, his head lolled loosely. Too loosely...

            "_Emilio!" Her elegant hands felt frantically for the pulse, for the signs of life, but came away with only more blood._

            "_Dona?" Francisco asked quietly, his single word carrying dreadful trust; begging her, as the angel they all admired, to assure them that their friend and comrade was all right, that he was going to be okay. She heard the words as from a distance, her hands still searching quickly, stubbornly, for the beat of his heart. Behind her, her guards' silence as they realized the reason for hers._

            Angelina's eyes were burning and watering. The dust in the air, of course. The dust, still settling, that made the world a nightmare of ghosts; the wounded... and the dead.

            Mechanically, she placed her hands on Emilio's unmoving chest at the juncture of the ribs and began the sharp thrusts of CPR, designed to get the heart pumping again.

            "Clear his airways," she snapped to the two behind her, lifting a hand to wipe at the hot tears that squeezed from the corners of her eyes and made their way down her face. She was unaware of the blood and dirt she left smeared on her cheeks, nor would she have cared. They mechanically moved to obey. Ambulances could faintly be heard in the background now.

            Gianni's face was pale as he carefully opened the mouth, then hesitated. Angelina's voice cracked as she yelled, "Damn it! Do I have to do everything myself? Help him, God damn you!"

            "_Dona.... it's too late," said Francisco softly. "He's gone."_

            "No! No," she snarled, continuing to pump the chest. "He's not... going anywhere... not while I'm... not Emilio." _Dear God, not Emilio. Not the youngest. Please, Mother Mary, not him...!_

            She shot her eyes heavenward. Through the jagged hole of the ceiling, she could see the brilliance of the stars, shining unconcerned on the world below as they had hours ago... as they would continue to do so. "_The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork..."_

            Capella brought her gaze back to earth, sweeping the room with its haze and struggling figures. People were still emerging from under the tables. Even as she watched, the tablecloth on the nearest table, some thirty feet away, lifted to reveal Jason Blood, standing to survey the carnage around him.

            Her hands stopped their movements and her dark eyes fixed on him with as much warmth as the weapons of Mr. Freeze.    He seemed to be completely unhurt. Not a scratch...

            _But of course not! He's been hiding under the furniture since this started, why should he be hurt? she mockingly asked herself. She looked down again at the blood on her young guard._

            The tears began to flow more quickly, but now she ignored them, reaching up only to close Emilio's sightless eyes.

            Jason shook his head as he took in the bloody mess around him. Damn it! He should have thought it out more before unleashing Etrigan... he might have been able to get rid of Freeze with a few choice spells, rather than let loose the Demon to do all this...

            But, of course he hadn't been thinking. He had seen that creep go for Angelina, and that had ended rational thought. Where was she? He hoped to God Etrigan hadn't done anything to her.

            There she was, kneeling next to a body or something, the ever-present thugs behind her. He shouldered his way through the still stunned people to reach her. 

            "Angelina! Are you all right? My God, when everything started happening... I was so worried about you," he said.

            She was a mess. The perfect red dress was now stained with much darker red; the artfully crafted hairstyle looked as if a whirlwind had hit it; and when she slowly looked up at him, her sparkling eyes were dead and flat.

            "Yes. I could see your great concern for my welfare," she said in an empty voice, then returned to stare at what lay before her.

            Jason, taken aback, followed her gaze to see the guard's bloody form. "Damn! Didn't know one of your men was hurt... how bad is he? Let me see..." He began to crouch down next to the body.

            "Get away from him," she snapped with arctic force. Blood blinked, taking a step back as she stood and glared at him. "He's well beyond any hurt, _signore Blood." _

            Comprehending her words, Jason sighed. _Jesus. Another death on Etrigan's hands... on my hands. It never ends..._

            "I'm sorry, Angelina," he said quietly. _More sorry than you know. "The ambulances are here. I'll go get one of them to bring a stretcher... or something."_

            "Don't trouble yourself," she said with no small amount of venom. "My loyal, courageous friend needs no favors from a man whose position in a fight is under the table.

            "Nor, may I add, do I. Good night and goodbye, _signore Blood." Without a backward glance, she gestured for her two remaining men to lift their fallen friend's body and follow her to the door._

            _But... Jason closed his eyes in disbelief. ****__Damn__ Etrigan! Damn him! Exhausted, Blood walked over to the nearest intact chair and collapsed in it, staring around the demolished Museum. __I hope you're happy, Etrigan. Goddamn you._

            He sat there staring as those able to left under their own power, and those not able were carried away in ambulances... sometimes with sheets on top of them. The police came, of course, but he had only to stare at them when they approached, and they always decided to get statements from others. The Museum eventually cleared of just about everybody. Jason leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes against the headache-inducing throb of the police-car lights outside. What a night.

            The sound of rubble moving and glass breaking caused him to look up and around. Dipsas was crouching in the center of the trashed central room, absently sifting through the wreckage.

            _Probably looking for the damned diamonds, Jason thought tiredly, rising from his chair and preparing to go home. He passed the director on his way out._

            "Nice party, Nicolas," he said sardonically.

            "Shut up, Blood," the curator said flatly. "I ought to sue you for property damage, you know."

            "Never get it to stick. How much would you like me to donate to the rebuilding fund?"

            Dipsas's dark eyes scanned the remnants of his glorious Museum. "$4 million, I'd say. Repairs alone, then compensation... what a nightmare."

            "I'll have my people send your people a check," Blood said wearily, heading for the door. He left the curator standing in the middle of the ruins, murmuring forlornly to himself, "Calculated risks..."

            It had _not been a good night._

            Gianni drove as usual, but even his stoic attention to duty could not completely hide the grief and anger that emanated from him. Francisco, too, bore the same sorrowing air as they returned to their place of residence here in Gotham.

            Angelina could only lean against the cool glass of the car's window and shut her eyes. So senseless. Such a waste. Anger welled up in her, violent and ready to smother her. She took deep breaths, but it did not help.

            _Who to hate? Who to blame? she thought in the darkness of her mind. Her fury reached out to all of them: first to Mr. Freeze, the uncaring fool who had triggered the night's events, who had fired to bring the ceiling down._

            Some even to Emilio; loyal, conscientious Emilio... the one who had been in love with her, of course, and never said a thing because he would have known her answer in advance. _Stupid boy, she cried sadly in her mind. __Did I ask you to save me? Did I ask you to die for me?_

            He had been doing his job.

            Then there was Jason Blood. She couldn't figure out _why, exactly, her anger burned so bitter against him, except that he was alive and unhurt and Emilio was not. Because as the boy had shielded her with his own body, the man had been safe... hiding. Intellectually, she knew it was foolish to hold this against him--he had only been doing what was sane, under the circumstances--but she grieved, and would not permit herself understanding and forgiveness yet._

            God was next. God and the saints and the Virgin Mother above, who smiled mindlessly from the stars and cared nothing for the humans beneath who lived and died pointlessly. Her hand reached up and gripped the crucifix around her neck tightly, the metal digging sharply into her palm. 

            Death had rarely touched her so before. Her father had died when she was seventeen, but they had not been close and she had not cried then. But here and now, when the dead man was one she had been responsible for... Was it true, the words she had lived by her whole life? Was Emilio in a world free of pain now? Or was this also a lie?

            Lies. The province of devils... In her mind she saw the figure again. Terrible in its strength, its savagery. This, then, was the enemy. The demon... Her mission had been given to her in Rome, only months ago though it seemed longer now. The records of the Vatican bore mention of this demon through the centuries, but until a few months ago, he had been a creature of history only.

            Then the monks of Assisi had reported it. A yellow monster, breathing fire and rhyme to wreak havoc in the famed monastery. Rome had listened, and with trembling hands, searched her dusty archives, comparing the new reports with the old tales. To learn that the demon known as Etrigan was back.

            And then sent _her to kill it. _

She opened her eyes. This, then, was a fitting target for her anger. The devil had helped to bring his death, and so he would pay. Angelina Capella swore it to herself, in the dark back seat of an expensive car, sitting next to a dead body and finding targets for her rage.

But the heaviest portion of her wrath was aimed at herself.

Jason stepped out of the elevator, exhaustion playing across his features as he unlocked his apartment and stepped in. He wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and go to bed. Maybe when he woke up things would look better. 

The apartment was dark except for the glow of the television, which Harry had on. But he wasn't looking at it. Instead, his eyes were turned to Blood as if he had been waiting for his friend to get home.

"Uh, hey, Jase."

The demonologist muttered something back, shutting the door behind him.

"So... uh... have a nice time with the diamond thingy?"

Jason turned and stared at the pillow. "Harry. Look at me. I'm covered in cement dust. Do I _look like I had a nice time?"_

"Um. Well. Just asking."

"Right. Well, don't."

"Gotcha."

An awkward silence ensued as Jason took off the tuxedo jacket to drop it on the floor, then headed into the kitchen to make a stiff drink.

"Ummm. Jase...?"

"This had better be important Harry, because right now is really _not a good time."_

"Oh. Um, well.... it's just that... uh..." The pillow trailed off quietly as Jason came back into the room, but stopped to look at the balcony sliding glass door--which was shattered open, the curtains blowing gently in the night breeze.

"Harry... I'm almost afraid to ask... but _why is the door broken?" Blood said quietly, first taking a large swallow from his glass._

"Well, that's what I was getting to... y'see... I guess we have a guest again." Harry was unable to gesture, having no limbs, but used his eyes to look into the shadows behind him.

Now that he was looking for it, Jason could just make out the figure standing there, arms crossed in the universal position of impatience. The figure shifted, and moved into the light, his wings spreading slightly.

Zauriel's eyes burned like twin flames as he gave the demonologist a hard stare. "I'm only going to ask nicely once, human. 

"Give me back the sapphire."

Jason stared at the angel for a long second, then finished off the rest of the glass in one gulp. The night was just getting worse.

THE VANILLA-FLAVORED NEXT ISSUE BOX: Poor Jason. Poor Angelina. Poor Emilio! Freeze didn't even get away with any diamonds. Anyhoo.... Next month, two very special characters enter the brouhaha: Klarion the Witch-Boy and his pointy-eared friend, Teekl! Also, I may convince John Constantine to pop back up; it depends on his mood when I ask him.

What, exactly, happens? Well then. There will be a bit of philosophy... magic... and a fight scene, kinda like maybe. I dunno. 


	6. A Night to Remember, Part Three: Lies an...

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #6 ~ "A Night to Remember, Part Three: Lies and A Light Show"

by Dien

Story notes: 

Blood blinked as the strong liquor took effect, shook his head slightly to clear the buzzing, and stared at the irate angel. "You want me to do _what?"_

            Zauriel lost his temper. The day--the spiritual torment of dealing with this man/demon several hours ago--the disgust and pity that had overwhelmed him as he observed Gotham--the shadow attack and the theft of the Fatestone--all of these had built and built and he felt entitled to a little righteous wrath.

            He stepped closer, his wings rustling. One arm shot out and grabbed Jason's shirt collar. Zauriel pulled the demonologist close and said in his best Batman imitation, "Don't. Play. Dumb. You _know what I'm talking about."_

            "All right. I've had just about _enough of this," Blood snapped, using the hand not holding his glass to sketch an arcane symbol in the air. Glaring at the angel, he said, "In __any time or place, it's unwise to threaten me, angel. You, however, may have picked the worst possible time, and I know for a __fact you've picked the worst place._

            "_Kaz heilos atrasan," Blood growled at the same time he spread his fingers wide to finish the casting. The apartment turned into a fair impression of a thunderstorm, and Harry, who had been watching the whole scene with great interest, tried with moderate success to duck behind the couch and get the hell out of the way. _

Blood had lived nearly fifteen centuries--and spent most of them studying magic and demons in attempts to free himself from Etrigan. One of the more useful types of sorcery he had picked up over the years was wards. These protective magicks could be used to guard against trespassers, or activated with a word, phrase, or gesture. Every single building or property he owned had at least two wards set on them.

            This apartment had thirty-six.

            At his words, bolts of magical lightning sprang from the walls, floor, ceiling and thin air to leap with single-minded intensity towards Zauriel. They hit with sizzling intensity. Crying out in pain, he quickly released the demonologist. As the supernatural bolts rebounded concussively through his body, the angel fell to his knees, his face contorted with agony.

            Jason straightened his collar and set down his now-empty glass, sticking his hands in his pockets and coolly observing the figure before him. The lightning continued to writhe through the angel's form, but Zauriel was fighting it... and, slowly, with every move an effort and sweat beading on his face... forcing himself to stand. Using the back of the couch to help himself up, he torturously straightened up. Blood watched without alarm and then, when the angel finally stood upright once more, he gestured again and quietly spoke a few more words.

            A small jar of non-descript soil on a nearby shelf shook--toppled--spilled open when it hit the floor. The dirt twisted, churned, and grew until a figure took shape from it to stand passively in front of its master. It was formed like a man but stood a good eight or nine feet tall. Men had once called such things golems.

            Blood pointed calmly towards the still-struggling Zauriel, saying, "Restrain." The golem obeyed, stepping mindlessly forward to grasp the angel in a grip as strong and untiring as stone--not hurting him, just keeping from effectively attacking--or doing much of anything effectively, for that matter. Zauriel resisted, strained; but weakened as he was from the first attack, he might as well have tried to wrest the stars from the sky.

            Harry, peeking from around the corner of the couch, grinned. This was better than the WWF match that had been on, and that had Stone Cold in it! Still, he was betting ready money on Jase, who hadn't even whipped out ol' red-eyes yet.

            Jason walked over to the struggling angel and said evenly, "That's two down. I still have thirty-four to go. Now, you can stop fighting, swear you'll not assault me, and I'll have the golem release you. Then we can discuss this like civilized beings.

            "Or you can keep fighting, and waste the time of everybody involved. It's really up to you."

            Zauriel gave one last titanic effort that accomplished exactly the same things as the others--that is to say, nothing--then fell back exhausted in the golem's unrelenting grip, glaring at Blood. "I should... have known... better than to trust you... the first time. I... won't make... same mistake twice... _demon," he gasped._

            Jason shook his head. "You break into my home to threaten and accuse me of something I haven't done. I have defended myself, and now, instead of having you thrown out the window like I _feel like doing right now, am offering to talk things over with you if you promise not to attack the second I free you. And somehow, this places __me in the wrong?"_

            Zauriel opened his mouth to say something, then shut it and hung his head. After a moment, he spoke in a low voice, "Forgive me. I... I've... judged and I didn't think... I was hasty and... forgive me."

            Jason closed his eyes wearily, suddenly feeling an uncommon pang of pity for the fallen angel. _Must things always... must Etrigan always... lead to fighting...?_

            "Release him," he said to the golem, "and return to the earth." Immediately, the golem did so and collapsed into a small pile of dirt on the carpet. Now bereft of the supporting arms, Zauriel collapsed to the floor. He raised a hand to pull himself back up... and found it met by Jason's own.

            The occultist silently helped the angel to his feet, their gazes locking for a second in wordless understanding--apology on Zauriel's part and simple acknowledgment on Jason's.

            The moment passed and Blood turned, gesturing for the Leaguer to take a seat as he fetched his guest a glass of water. Harry, now that the excitement was over, sighed and turned his attention back to the TV and the wrestling match.

            Zauriel accepted the water gratefully as Jason seated himself, gazing speculatively at the angel. "So," the human said dryly, "I take it the Fatestone is missing."

            "Yeah," Zauriel sighed, back to his usual self after the anger had passed. "Stolen."

            "From _you?" Jason asked with a raised eyebrow._

            "Something attacked me--a shadow or... I don't know. It just came... over me, and I think I passed out. When I woke, the sapphire was gone. Just like that."

            Jason's investigative instincts kicked in. "Where were you when this happened?"

            "Ah... I don't know the name. It's a big tower in the center of downtown Gotham--"

            "The Clock Tower. How long ago did this happen?" Blood asked, rising and heading towards one of the room's locked cabinets.

            "I guess about an hour ago. Afterwards... well, you were the only person who even knew I had the gem, so I just assumed... Sorry about the window, by the way," Zauriel mumbled in apology. So the guy made pacts with devils. That was _his problem, not Zauriel's; and it still didn't justify his breaking into the man's home and __assaulting him..._

            Blood nodded, waving away the angel's explanation. "If you'll allow me, I can cast a small divination spell on you... hopefully, it will let me sense, at least a little, what happened. May I?"

            Zauriel shrugged. "I guess. If you think it'll help. Do I need to do anything?"

            "No. Just hold still."

            As Zauriel held, Jason took a small round mirror and a crystalline flask from the cabinet. The mirror he placed on the floor in front of the angel, sitting himself cross-legged in front of it. Then he let a few drops of the flask's water trickle onto the mirror's surface, murmuring under his breath in a very old language as he did so. Finally he closed his eyes and concentrated on the desired image.

            The angel Zauriel was the target. The time was an hour past. Jason let his mind focus on the scene to the exclusion of all else, filling in the other details as he needed them: the Tower, the darkness, the sapphire... One of his hands reached out to touch the mirror, which began to glow.

            Softly at first, then more brightly, until the light shone redly through Jason's outstretched fingers. Heat accompanied light, the droplets of water on the mirror beginning to hiss and then to steam as magical energies played out beneath them. The angel watched in interest as Jason continued to chant softly, seemingly unaffected by the heat which boiled away the water and super-heated the glass. 

Something in the apartment _shifted. To any observer that might have watched, the sound of the words, though barely audible, seemed to fill the ear and mind... The noises of the TV faded and died; the sounds of the street and city below vanished into nothing. The only realities were the rising, falling, quiet words... and the mirror._

            It glowed white-hot by the time Jason trailed off into silence, bending all his will into retrieving the image from the ethereal world. His eyes slowly opened and fixed on the glass, observing the scene that played out on the brilliant surface.

            _Here is the fallen angel, sitting pensive on the creation of stone and steel. Here are the stars above, singing of distant shores and symphonies. Here is the city, damned and beautiful, that great city, Babylon..._

_            Here is the darkness--a thing alive. Jason seized that, forcing the mirror to follow it and trace it back, back, backwards. Behind it. __Behind... here is the stone of the tower. Here is the darkness. Here is its master, familiar by his side._

_            Here is the child._

            Jason blinked, startled and angry, and concentration broke. So did the mirror, without the demonologist focusing his will on channeling the mystical energies. The heated glass burst into shards and fragments, the glow quickly dying. 

It didn't matter. Jason knew who they were dealing with now.

            "Hello again, Klarion," he sighed grimly.

            Zauriel opened his eyes. "Say what?"

            "Klarion. Bad news. Kid with magic powers and a cat. Crazy psycho little brat," Harry called helpfully from the couch.

            "Yes, that's... essentially correct. Klarion the Witch-Boy is a child from another dimension with powerful spells and a dangerous familiar, the werecat Teekl," Jason said to clarify Harry's words.

            "Okay, I guess you've run into him before. And he would take the Fatestone... why?" questioned Zauriel.

            "I believe Harry said 'crazy psycho little brat.' In other words, God alone knows _why he took it, but it would be wise to get it back from him as soon as possible--__before he can cause damage with it," Blood said with a sigh, moving from the floor to one of the chairs._

            "Wait up. I thought this Fatestone's not supposed to be a weapon? What could he do with it?"

            "The problem with Klarion," Jason explained ruefully, "is that things around him have a habit of doing what they're not supposed to. I don't know _what he could do with it... and I'd prefer we didn't find out the hard way. Remember that the purpose of the gem is, essentially, to rewrite reality."_

            "Uh... good point," Zauriel said uncomfortably. "So what do you suggest?"

            Blood leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes to think better. Klarion was such an unpredictable quantity... and now he had his hands on a powerful magical relic. Though he didn't mention it to the angel, he thought of Etrigan's earlier words that the third birth was going to be the most important one of all, and he shuddered. 

Like the situation had _needed to be made worse._

            As if thinking of his yellow-skinned companion had conjured him, Etrigan was there, speaking in his thoughts.

            **So, I hear the dear child returns.**

**            I teach and teach, but he never learns.**

**            Very well. The Witch-boy (and pet) I'll train**

**            And instruct again in the meaning of pain...**

**            You desire them caught? You desire them found?**

**            Then let me out, Jason, and I'll play the hound.**

**            I'll hunt the thieves who take the stone.**

**            As a bonus, I'll leave the angel alone.**

**            You have my oath. It's now your call.**

**            Decide quickly... or not at all.**

            Jason mused silently on Etrigan's offer. He trusted the demon's word as he trusted a life-raft full of holes... but still, Etrigan _was likely to go after Klarion, whom he was not fond of. And the demon's skills were sufficient to find the child. Jason made his decision, then opened his eyes._

            Zauriel was still waiting for an answer. Blood wondered how the angel would react but that took second priority, _after getting the Fatestone out of Klarion's grubby little paws._

            "All right, Zauriel. I think I know how to get the jewel back. Now, I'm going to... change. Try not to overreact." Jason took a breath and began.

            _"Gone, gone, the form of man_

_            "And rise the demon Etrigan!"_

            Smoke and sulphur swirled as the transformation took place. Zauriel, who hadn't quite realized what Blood was talking about, pulled away from the shifting form in front of him, throwing an arm up to shield his face.

            **"Dear angel, bright herald, why hide your fair face?**

**            "In starry Heaven you've caroled, but _here you're out of place._**

**            "Amidst bracken and ruin--the human condition--**

**            "You're all indignation... while _I'm full of contrition._**

**            "Irony, don't you agree?"**

            Zauriel's eyes shot open. Great God above... a rhymer. He stared uneasily at the figure in front of him.

            The demon was casually crouched on the back of one of the sofas, taloned claws sinking deeply into the leather upholstery. He was powerfully muscled, the tendons and sinews visible on his yellow-hued skin and under his blood-red garments. A tattered, indigo blue cloak hung over the side of the sofa. His needle-sharp teeth were bared in an unnerving grin, matched only by the unholy gleam in the fiery red eyes. 

Zauriel tensed involuntarily, his hands clenching into fists as he faced a visible incarnation of the evil he and his brethren had fought for millennia untold. Etrigan saw it and laughed.

**"Oh sweet cherub! Relax your halo, fallen son**

**"We're not to fight, though 'twould be fun.**

**"For to the man who has with demons trucked**

**"I swore I'd leave your wings unplucked.**

**"And, while I'd _love to roast you, or cave in your skull--_**

**"That was not what dear Jason and I planned.**

**"Circumstances require that I show control.**

**"For foes more worthy of my ire are at hand.**

**"I go to hunt--that most delightful of chores.**

**"Aye, I go to battle, to settle old scores**

**"With foes both young and stupid."**

            Without further warning, Etrigan leaped up and headed for the window in one fluid bound, startling the angel. Ignoring the broken shards of glass and the gently blowing curtains, the Demon threw himself bodily out into the night.

            Zauriel blinked and cautiously approached to peek over the edge of the balcony, fully expecting to see a little red, yellow, and blue spot on the pavement thirteen stories down. He slowly stuck his head over the edge... looking over to see...

            ...Etrigan grinning at him as he hung upside down by his knees from the balcony's supports. **"Well? Coming, Cupid?" **

With that, Etrigan unhooked his legs and swung free of the balcony to drop like a stone towards the buildings below. He landed on a roof with concussive force, but didn't seem to care. The rhymer immediately set off along the rooftops in the direction of the Clock Tower, never even glancing back.

Zauriel sighed. This was going to be a looong night. Grimly, the angel spread his wings and set out after the quickly-vanishing demon.

            He caught up with the Demon a few buildings later as the rhymer paused for dramatic effect on the WGBC station's radio dish. Etrigan smirked as he saw the angel approach, his eyes glowing like twin coals.

            **"I'm so glad you decided to tag along**

**            "Perhaps you'll regale me with cherubic song.**

**            "No? Then let us talk as we walk**

**            "To the Tower and Clock, tick-tock, tick-tock."**

            "I don't know that we have a lot to talk about, demon," Zauriel said through gritted teeth as the garishly-clad figure beneath him took off again. Leaping to the next rooftop, Etrigan laughed wildly and threw back over his shoulder,

            **"Oh, there's much to speak of, and much to discuss**

**            "Heaven, and Hell, and Christmas hogs trussed**

**            "Or, perhaps, our mutual friend...**

**            "What say you of Blood? Do you attack or defend?"**

            "Attack or defend--?" Zauriel echoed, struggling with Etrigan's mode of speech. "I guess I... if you're asking me what I think of Jason Blood... Look, this is not the sort of conversation I expected to be having. If someone had told me this morning that at 10:00 p.m., a demon would be asking me what I think of his human master, well, I'd have been a little bit-"

            Etrigan's unexpected, angry snarl interrupted and startled Zauriel.

            **"Do you think me a dog, do you think I'm a _pet?_**

**            "Others have said it. 'Tis a mistake they regret.**

**            "Blood _my master? Ha. As the moon rules the Earth._**

**            "If you jest, angel friend, I don't see the mirth."**

            "Uh... okay. Sorry to offend you. Bad choice of words," Zauriel muttered. "Well, okay. What do I think of your... friend? I... I don't really understand him. I mean, I can't condone what he is--what he's done--but he seems-"

            **"What Blood is? What Blood's done?**

**            "Elaborate please, heaven's son."**

            Zauriel grimaced and wondered if he was ever going to get through a complete sentence with the rhymer. "Isn't it kind of obvious?

            "We're talking about a human who decided to invite something like_ you into his body. I don't know what he thought he'd get out of bonding himself with you, but-"_

            Again the angel was interrupted, this time by laughter.

            **"Oh, sweet seraph! I'm afraid you've made a mistake.**

**            "Our unwelcome union was not of Blood's choice or make.**

**            "Nor, I confess, does it please me overmuch**

**            "No, this hated cage was forged at another's touch."**

            Zauriel blinked. "What... what're you saying? Jason _didn't summon you and make a covenant with you? Then who did?"_

            **"Accursed Merlin did the deed**

**            "Thinking Camelot stood in need.**

**            "But Morgaine won. That bright castle fell**

**            "With him too weak to send me back to Hell.**

**            "So to spare this world my fiery rage**

**            "He found and bound me in the perfect cage:**

**            "A jail of blood--flesh--muscles--bone.**

**            "Thus this demon could ne'er roam.**

**            "Aye, by blood ties he called me, and in Blood he chained me**

**            "My jailer unwilling, _Myrddin's trusting pawn._**

**            "In hatred we've journeyed, and I've never remained free**

**            "Through fifteen long centuries gone."**

**            Etrigan had stopped moving during this recitation, standing motionless and brooding on the narrow window ledge of a fifty-story building. A cold wind had picked up from across the bay and whipped his azure-hued cloak around his figure, shrouding it in shadows except for the smoldering points of crimson light that were his eyes.**

            Zauriel hovered near for a second or so, his features rigid with displeasure. Finally he snapped out, "I don't believe you," and launched himself once more in the direction of the Clock Tower, much nearer now.

            Etrigan started at the words, as if he had temporarily forgotten he had an audience. Then he smiled and leapt after his temporary ally, catching up despite the swift speed the angel maintained.

            **"You say, seraph, that I lie.**

**            "If this demon may ask, why?" the Demon asked curiously, as he moved rapidly through the concrete jungle, the angel flying just ahead.**

            "Precisely," Zauriel ground out, never looking at his smiling companion. "Demon. One of Luci--one of Satan's thralls. The Father of Lies. Like ruler, like subject."

            **"A prejudice most unfair, angel bright!**

**            "Besides, _I've never bowed to the Bringer of Light._**

**            "Even in Heaven's holy halls they must tell**

**            "Of Etrigan, temporarily the King of Hell.**

**            "So I repeat. Why do you believe**

**            "That Etrigan seeks to deceive?"**

            They had reached the Clock Tower, and Zauriel alighted on the ledge he had occupied some hours before, turning to look out over the city. "It's not true," he said quietly, only the tense muscles in his jaw showing how truly upset he was. "It can't be. Jason Blood summoned you himself--he had to--and he made a covenant with you. He's _not innocent. He __can't be."_

            Etrigan shook his head, privately wondering what the angel's problem was. Finally he asked simply, not even bothering to rhyme, **"Why not?"**

            "_Because God wouldn't allow it!" the angel shouted. "If... if Blood's innocent... if he truly didn't ask for you... then... great God above, how he must have suffered these centuries... No. The Creator would not--__could not--allow __you to be inflicted on an innocent person. __He just couldn't."_

            Etrigan smirked. He had expected nothing more than an evening of hunting the Witch-Boy... but fate had thrown in his path an angel in the midst of a crisis of faith. It was delicious.

            **"Correct me if I'm wrong, my poor spiritual tyke--**

**            "But doesn't the rain 'fall on just and unjust alike?'"**

            "That's different," the angel snapped. "That's part of living in a sinful world. Normal temptations... normal problems... _You are in no way normal. Nobody should have to be cursed with you. How could He have let it happen?"_

            **"Come now. There is historical precedent**

**            "For the sacrifice of the innocent.**

**            "God can, God has, God _'could'_**

**            "As long as it's for the greater good--**

**            "As long as it means Jehovah's won.**

**            "Think. Didn't He kill His only Son?**

**            "What does _that suggest to you?"_**

            "Gave," Zauriel said helplessly. "_Gave. Not killed."_

            **"Aye. And he gave Jason too**

**            "Sacrificed him like the paschal Lamb.**

**            "What a God, hmm? Such compassion for man!**

**            "You have my sympathies. It's not every day**

**            "That you learn One you trusted has led you astray.**

**            "An old cheat, that One-"**

            "Shut up," Zauriel whispered hoarsely. "Just shut your lying mouth _right **now."**_

            Etrigan smiled broadly and looked to the pavement far below. That was enough fun for the moment...

            **"Enough discussion. Now's not the time.**

**            "I have a thief to catch, and speech to rhyme**

**            "Though _I do both with greatest of ease..._**

**            "I should do it quick, before we freeze."**

**            The demon chuckled to himself and began to literally sniff out Klarion's trail, sticking his yellow nose close to the concrete ledge and grimacing.**

            **"Ah yes, that remembered stench, foul and vile**

**            "Of kitty cat and unwashed child.**

**            "So keep up, angel, if you can**

**            "For Klarion's trailed by _Etrigan!"_**

**            Snarling fire into the night, Hell's rhymer prince leapt from the tower's ledge and began the hunt in earnest. Silently, his face a mask over conflicting emotions, Zauriel spread his wings and followed.**

            ELSEWHERE IN GOTHAM...

            "Teekl! No! Bad kitty! _Bad!"_

            The dun-colored cat meowed plaintively and rubbed herself up against her young master's legs. He was not fooled.

            "Oh no you don't. Don't you dare take that tone with me. You know what you've done, Teekl, and I expect my stone back now. It is _not a cat toy." The boy stamped his foot for emphasis._

            The cat sniffed and sat down, beginning to wash her face unconcernedly. Klarion sighed.

            "Fine. Be that way. But just be warned. I'm not feeding you for the rest of the week. So there."

            Teekl _mrrowled angrily, the fur on her back standing up. Klarion met her green-eyed gaze stare for stare with all the stubbornness of a pre-adolescent sorcerer. The cat backed down first._

            Making a few sounds and motions familiar to anyone who's ever seen a cat hack up a hairball, she quickly turned over her treasure--a large blue stone, beautifully cut and faceted. Under other circumstances, it would gleam with light, but right now all it gleamed with was saliva and cat hair.

            Klarion the Witch-Boy made a face. "Ugh. Well, you know what they say: Never look a gift cat in the mouth."

            He gingerly picked up the sapphire, muttering something about cooties, and wiped it off on the carpet. 

            The two were standing in the toy department of Gotham City's largest department store, dark, empty, and locked-up at this time of night. Of course, the security systems bothered neither of them, and Klarion had been having the time of his life until he had set his newest acquisition down to inspect a beautiful train set. Teekl had taken advantage of his distraction, and now he was busy scolding his feline companion.

            "I went to a great deal of trouble to take that away from that mean adult-looking angel, and the last thing I need is you swallowing it, Teekl," said the boy. "We would hardly be able to save the poor baby with the Fatestone in your _stomach, now would we?_

            "Now, I _know there's a lot of distractions, but let's try and keep our mind on the job, okay? Good girl," said the Witch-Boy, petting his purring familiar._

            "Now, back to that train set..." 

THE NEXT ISSUE BOX THAT SCREAMED LIKE A GIRL: Woo, that was a long one! I'd had this angel/demon conversation I'd been meaning to have for a while, and it took more room up than I thought. Next issue... uh... um... wait and see. I know that's not exactly original, but I might take a one-issue break from this storyline, and I don't want to commit to something that might not be here. I can promise it'll have Etrigan in it! J


	7. A Night to Remember, Part Four: Unexpect...

TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone

Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format. 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.

TALES OF THE DEMON #7 ~ "A Night to Remember, Part Four: Unexpected Visitors"

by Dien

Story notes:

GOTHAM CITY, JASON'S APARTMENT

            "_Buuurrrp." The noise reverberated in the empty apartment, followed by Harry's satisfied sigh. Being a pillow sucked at times, but being a pillow that lived in the apartment of a very very wealthy man wasn't __all bad. First, 52-inch TV screen with a hundred and sixty-eight channels. Second, unlimited shots of the finest quality Bacardi rum known to man. Third, darn comfy couch._

            The only thing wrong with the scene right now, Harry mused, was the broken window to his left. As a pillow, he didn't mind the cold as much as he had when he was alive, but it was still a tad uncomfortable as Gotham's cool night air blew in through the gaping aperture. And it didn't do much for one's sense of security either. Why, anyone could just come in through the window... with a knife... or big, bloody axe...

            Harry shuddered and quickly changed the channel from the late-night movie showing of "Maniac Massacre at Midnight" to HBO. Thankfully, the TV controls were now voice-activated, which beat the old way of having to use a straw in his mouth to depress the remote buttons. With a contented sigh, the flesh cushion leaned back on the couch, sipped his drink, and began to enjoy the visual delights of "Charlie's Angels."

            And then, over the sounds of explosions and lipstick, he heard It.

            Someone was at the door. More specifically, someone was trying to get _in the door. Harry Matthews stiffened and wished for a gun. Actually he wished for a hand to hold a gun, but the principle was the same. Having neither, he squinched himself down behind the cushions as far as possible, as the apartment's door swung open to let in the hallway's light._

            There was a long pause, then the light of the hallway was once more shut out as the door closed with a soft click. Another long pause. Finally Harry summoned up the nerve to squinch himself over the edge of the couch and peek.

            Well, it was human at least. Or looked it. White male, late twenties/early thirties, blond hair, brown trenchcoat, Harry's advertising-bred mind ran through quickly. Smoking cigarette. White button-up collared shirt with tie underneath. Left shoe untied.

            "'Ere now, mate. What're you looking at, then?" It Spoke! Harry did a frantic squinch back behind the couch again, but it was too late. WSM, 25-35, had him pegged.

            A hand reached over the top of the couch and picked him up effortlessly. Harry squirmed. 

            "Bleedin' hell. What are you supposed to be, then?" muttered a very English voice.

            "I'm a--" 

Harry considered carefully, then amended his planned indignant '_pillow, what do I look like?' sentence. "...ferocious beast from Regions Beyond, and if you don't let me go, right now, I'll bite your wrist, pal!"_

"Christ, you're a bleedin' pillow."

Harry went for the wrist.

"'Ere now! None of that, dammit!" Instinctively, the newcomer flung Harry away from him. The pillow hurtled through the room and hit the far wall with a solid smack. "Uhrg..." Harry muttered as he slid down the wall to slump at the base.

"Er. You all right?" the voice said hesitantly.

"I see... stars... Woo... 'm alright.... 'm okay... no thanks to _you, pal..." Harry wheezed, as he struggled to flop himself upright again._

"Well, sorry. You _did try an' bite me, after all."_

"_You were holding me up by my hair. I warned you."_

"Fair enough. You got bottle, even if you are a... pillow. Name's John Constantine, by the way."

Harry squinted up at the figure. He was pretty sure Jason had mentioned the name before, but he couldn't remember what he had said about it. With a last 'uff' he managed to land completely flat on his, uh, back, for lack of a better word. Sighing, he said, "Harry Matthews. And I'm a little sensitive about the whole 'pillow' thing. If we're being all friendly now, could you please pick me up and put me back on the couch?"

            "Right." Somewhat more gently, the Englishman lifted Harry and set him back on the couch. The two sized each other up, then Constantine said, "Maybe you can help me, then. I wasn't expecting to find a... uh... well, you here. Don't a bloke named Blood live here?"

            "Jason? Yeah... but, uh, he's not home right now," said Harry with an involuntary glance towards the still-broken window. Constantine followed his gaze. "Doesn't exactly leave by conventional means, does he?" he said with a slight smile.

            "Whatever. Look, you mind telling me who you are, why you've broken into the house, and what the heck you're doing traipsing around like you own the place? Because lemme tell you, less than an hour ago I got to see a birdbrain (who also entered forcibly, and who also waltzed around like God's own stuffing) become Kentucky-fried angel, if you catch my drift."

            "Angel? Hell. Thought I sensed something too clean for this city," the Englishman muttered, taking a drag on his cigarette. His sharp blue eyes roamed over everything, suddenly stopping at the glass on the coffee table, filled with golden liquid and a long straw. "Say, mate... is that... Bacardi?"

            Harry grinned. "Damn right. I take it you're a guy who appreciates the finer things in life. I'd offer you a glass, but I still don't know (hint hint) who you are, or any of the others..."

"You want answers? Fine. Short story," John muttered as he breathed out the smoke, "is I'm a magician of sorts lookin' for some property that got itself stolen offa me. A jewel--"

            "Lemme guess, a sapphire," yawned Harry. John blinked. 

"Yeah. Others been lookin' for it?"

"Mm-hmm. Said bird-brain, primarily. If you've ever heard of a kid named Klarion, he's supposed to have it now, but I bet he won't for long. Zauriel and Etr--I mean, Jason, went to go get it back. Out the window."

John smiled knowingly. "Relax, pil--Harry. I've run into your squire Blood before... enough to know about his pet devil. Etrigan, right?

"And you say they went that way?" Constantine finished with a jerk of his head in the direction of the window. Harry hesitated, then nodded. The guy seemed to be okay. Better company than Jason with his damn moods all the time, and that was a fact.

"Yeah. About thirty minutes ago. But if I were you... well, far be it from _me to go around giving advice or anything, but... what's the rush, y'know? When one's got any sort of choice in this stuff, why __purposely head into the bad, crazy crap? Especially when one can sit and have a drink instead. _

"Now, mind you, I don't really have choices in these things anymore. Not a lot going for me in the transportation end of things. But you seem like an okay fellow, aside from the whole breaking-and-entering and flinging me across the room thing..."

"Which I've already apologized for," sighed the Englishman.

"Yeah, yeah. So anyway. Point being. Uh... oh, yeah. They'll be back, with the gemmy-thing no doubt, and you guys can sort the whole mess out then, right? Meantime, siddown and have a drink."

Constantine paused thoughtfully, a quirky smile on his face. "Well, devil take me the day I turn down an offer of a free drink an' all, but... damnit. No, I really need to lookin' for this thing. Tell you what, mate: I get this whole bloody mess sorted an' I'll come back for a pint or two then, right? Paint the town red, we will."

Harry couldn't help but grin. "Sounds like a plan."

            "Right then. See you in thirty, or whenever. Think I'll use the door out, though. In me younger days, might 'ave taken the window, but as is... Well, be seeing you, squire."

            "Yeah..." The door once more opened and clicked shut, leaving Harry with the TV, alcohol, and a mite better mood than the one he'd started the evening with.

ELSEWHERE IN GOTHAM

            Klarion lifted the engine from the train set and irritably flung it at the ice cream shop's large pane glass window.

            "Teach _them to be closed when I want double-fudge ripple," he muttered as the glass shattered and alarms went off. Klarion and Teekl picked their way over the broken glass and into the store. With an impatient gesture, Klarion cut off the sound of the alarms._

            Teekl quickly nosed her way towards some cream, and the witch-boy himself found a vat full of cookie dough ice cream that was quite adequate, even if it wasn't the double-fudge. For long moments the shop was silent except for the sound of a boy and his cat stuffing their faces.

            Finally Klarion sat back with a contented sigh, most of his front (and for that matter everywhere else) covered with ice cream.

            "This, Teekl," the boy pronounced happily, "is the life."

            The cat looked up from licking her fur clean of rich cream long enough to give what sounded like a scolding meow.

            "'Don't forget the job'?" Klarion echoed unhappily. "Teekl, you sound like an _adult! If you don't watch yourself, you're going to end up talking about things like... like... like... responsibility... and consequences!" He shuddered in horror._

            "And besides which, I haven't forgotten. We're just... gathering energy! We'll need lots of sugar and carbohydrates to cast magic!" the witch-boy said energetically. "So, more cream, or should I try and get that milk from the top shelf for you?"

            The tabby put her head to one side for a long moment to regard her young master, then settled for the cream.

NEARBY...

            Without warning, the figure of Etrigan paused in its pursuit through the city's buildings. Zauriel nearly ran into the demon's body, but stopped himself just in time. He alighted on a ledge as far away as he could comfortably get from the rhymer.

            "Why are you stopping?" he asked coldly. "Lost the trail?"

            Etrigan snorted.

            **"Hardly, my happily haloed hero. The chances of that are less than zero.**

**            "For what Etrigan sets out to hunt, he'll always find.**

**            "And the only thing I've ever lost is my mind--**

**            "No, let's be frank, my bestest bud...**

**            "The mind I lost was that of Blood."**

            At this point Etrigan laughed merrily to himself, and Zauriel inched further away, looking beseechingly up at heaven. Finally the demon seemed to get a hold of himself and said,

            **"The trail's still hot, or rather, quite cold,**

**            "Since it seems to have led to Ben & Jerry's.**

**            "And lo! The sheep (our foe) are in the fold **

**            "They the prey that the wolf now harries!"**

            Etrigan extended his taloned fingers, laughed with diabolical intent, and leapt to the pavement below. Zauriel, somewhat more cautiously, followed. Observing a cat and a small boy enjoying themselves in a ice cream store, and a demon about to set upon them, he wondered if the night could get any stranger...

            ...then remembered a superstition the humans had that if you said it, it would happen. He decided to keep his musings to himself.

            **"What ho, sweet child! Dear, _dear foe_**

**            "Tell me, how does the ice cream go?**

**            "Enjoy it, witch-boy, while you can--**

**            "For 'tis now melted by _Etrigan."_**

**            With his words, the demon let out a rolling gout of hellfire towards the shop, melting brick and glass into an odd fusion. He stood back and admired his handiwork with a chuckle.**

            **"Come out and play, little boy.**

**            "I've so missed our fun.**

**            "I've come in search of a toy**

**            "That you hold, my son.**

**            "So your choice, boy, is simple.**

**            "Release the Fatestone to _me_**

**            "Or I'll pinch those cute dimples**

**            "Rather hard, as you'll see...**

**            "Come out, come out, come out and play!**

**            "Let our rage, spite and chaos meet in the fray!"**

            Etrigan paused in his diatribe, observing the still quiet storefront (what was left) thoughtfully. Since he'd incinerated most of the front of it, there hadn't been one peep from the other side of the pile of still smoking slag.

            **"No insults? No whines? None of that? No childish kicks aimed at my shin?**

**            "If you hide like a spoiled child, brat, then be aware; the Demon's coming _in!"_**

            Fire raging from mouth and hands, the rhymer prince threw himself forward, blazing like some infernal comet spewed from the mouth of Hades. He tore through the debris of the shopfront to find Klarion ready and waiting for him.

            Klarion shouted an incantation in a long dead, or at least seriously ailing, tongue as he lifted small, ice-cream covered hands to point at the demon. Ice crystals shot out and enveloped Etrigan in the split second before he attacked.

            Etrigan snarled and growled as the white cage formed around him, his eyes red points of flame.

            **"Beware, boy, for if memory serves aright**

**            "You're the second to try such an attack tonight...**

**            "To hold hell-born with ephemeral ice.**

**            "And I for one, have had enough**

**            "Of this paltry, chilly, liquid stuff**

**            "And of those who use it, the filthy lice!"**

**            Flames erupted from the brightly-garbed figure, instantly cremating the ice. Etrigan shook the remaining clumps from him like a dog shaking off water, then looked around for Klarion.**

            The witch-boy was standing on what was left of the counter, his eyes squeezed shut and fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air. A cold wind began to blow as he chanted the beginnings of another spell.

            Etrigan smirked and casually wrenched a large deep freeze unit from its place on the floor. Lifting it with one hand over his head, he prepared to fling it at the junior sorcerer... just as preternaturally sharp feline claws and fangs sank into his calf.

            The demon let loose with an agonized snarl that would have sent every banshee in Hell hiding in shame, and instinctively clutched down at his leg where the familiar Teekl had gotten her bite in. Of course, doing this caused him to let loose of the deep freeze, and it landed squarely on his head. Another enraged howl followed, this one somewhat more muffled on account of the howler being underneath a hundred or so pounds of metal and ice cream.

            Above the chaos, Zauriel decided it was time to lend a hand. He glided in silently from behind the witch-boy, not planning to seriously hurt him, just grab him and maybe hit him on the head a few times until he stopped kicking. After all, this was a little kid... an ice-cream covered kid... and even with a little magic on his side, exactly how much trouble could he be?

            A second later, the angel was again reminded of that whole 'saying (or thinking) it makes it happen' thing when he was hurled twenty feet away to slam into a brick wall. The instant his hands had touched Klarion, an energy field of tremendous power had erected itself around the boy's form and rapidly repelled the angel.

            Zauriel sat up woozily and shook his head to clear the ringing. He was still hurting from the little run-in with a lightning storm in Jason Blood's apartment, and now this... he struggled to his feet conscious of more than a few aches.

            Meanwhile, an emission of hellfire sent a shower of melting ice cream and shrapnel every which way as Etrigan burst free of his sweet, sweet cage and launched a volley of flames at the Witch-Boy.

            They, too, were repelled by the mystic field surrounding the young sorcerer, who laughed to see such fun (and then ran away with the spoon--whoops, wrong story) and picked up Teekl as she _mrrowled her way over to him._

            "Isn't this great, Teekl?" he giggled. "Ever since we discovered that new protection spell, no supernatural attack can get to us at _all! This is more fun than I've had in years!"_

            The cat squirmed in his grip and looked meaningfully at Zauriel, still staggering a bit but grimly advancing. Klarion laughed, glanced at him then at Etrigan, and made a quick series of complex gestures with his free hand.

            _"Thranos! Aptiros! M'gneiran akkal!" the boy shouted gleefully. "Now, we just sit back and watch the fireworks, Teekl..."_

            Sirens could now be heard in the distance. Klarion grimaced. "Or maybe not. Oh well, our work here is done! Let's go, cat!"

            With a happy laugh, Klarion opened up a dimensional portal and stepped through, pausing only to grab a miraculously intact pint of double fudge ripple.

            Zauriel stood still for a second, dizzy after the blast the boy had hit him with. He waited for his vision to clear, hoping he wasn't going to get hit with anything else in the meantime. When he could see again, he glared around.

            Etrigan was nowhere in sight, but right in front of him was Klarion. With an irritated growl, he spread his wings, leapt forward, and clocked the boy with all the strength he could muster.

            A true angel, infused with the glory and power of their Creator, wields a strength that can wrest worlds from their orbits. An angel who has renounced full divinity, but still retains some of the cosmic power that is his birthright, still packs one hell of a punch.

            The figure he had just hit was instantly treated to a high-speed tour of an easy quarter-mile of downtown Gotham, as seen from above.

            The figure, of course, was everyone's favorite rhyming demon, and as he flew at high velocity through the air towards the Clock Tower they'd just come from, he mused that he was royally pissed. 

            Before he impacted the building, Etrigan muttered the words of a translocation spell under his breath. As a prince of Hell, he was more than adept at magicks great and small--he simply preferred to rip things apart with his bare hands, when he had the choice.

            The spell's energies seized him and transported directly where he wanted to go-- five feet above the angel's head.

            Zauriel had taken to the skies again and was hovering above the wrecked ice cream parlor, looking for his diminutive foe. He was hardly expecting three-and-a-half hundred pounds of demon to land on him from above, as was evidenced by his startled squawk.

            He reached up blindly and grabbed for the figure that sat atop him. To his enchanted senses, the ankle he grabbed felt like a small boy's, rather than a large demon's, and the hands that yanked at his head felt like small, sticky, ice cream covered hands rather than a demon's taloned grasp.

            He couldn't budge Klarion off of him, no matter how hard he yanked. The boy seemed to be saying... something... but he was in no mood to listen. The Witch-Boy was trying to hold his wings still! Stupid child, didn't he realize they'd both fall if that happened...?

            Zauriel struggled titanically and got his wings free from the clutching grasp. Their aerial struggles had brought them close to the wall of a bank building, and, with a savage smile on his face that would have shocked his heavenly former brethren, the angel dove towards it and turned so the figure on his back caught the full brunt of the impact.

            Etrigan grunted in pain as he was squished between hard-flying angel and hard-hitting cement and steel. His grasp on Zauriel's wings loosened and as the angel backed off, the demon slid limply down twenty feet to the ground.

            His foe called out from the air above him, "Had enough yet, Klarion?"

            Etrigan blinked red eyes and shook his head. So _that was why the choir reject had attacked him! And here he thought it was just a case of nerves... He snarled and got to his feet._

            **"Use your feathered head, my confused saint**

**            "And rid yourself of Witch-Boy's taint.**

**            "His spell clogs your mind and bids you strike**

**            "_Me, and not that irritating tyke!"_**

**            Zauriel appeared not to hear-- or at least not to hear what he was actually saying. The angel's face grew grim, and he said, "Fine. Have it your way, Witch-Boy." And the angel dove down towards him again.**

            Etrigan snarled and dodged out of the way just in time, taking advantage of the opportunity to slam his fist down towards that haloed head. If he had to, he'd _beat sense into the fallen-- this was ridiculous. He had business with Klarion, and, ally or not, if Zauriel got in his way, he'd kick some heavenly ass._

            But he had underestimated the skills and nature of a former member of the Pax Dei, Heaven's warrior seraphim. Zauriel twisted and evaded the strike, swiftly grabbing Etrigan's arm instead and flinging him around and into the wall again.

            **"Urrgh... masterful blow, my... angel friend...**

**            "But keep it up and I'll... do more than defend..." the demon muttered, picking himself up and observing with detached interest the cracks now appearing in the wall. He was starting to get a headache.**

            He turned and looked for the angel again, feeling a bit dizzy.

            "Up here, Witch-Boy. I'll say this much for you, you're resilient," Zauriel said from above, and flung a chunk of masonry (from the ice cream shop) the approximate size of a Yugo at him. Etrigan realized with a sad despairing snarl that he had noticed it too late and closed his eyes as the block of stone, cement, and brick impacted.

            **"Stupid.... stupid... angel...**

**            "I've tried... to show you... sense.**

**            "But if this =ung= is how you want to play...**

**            "Fine! On to the offense!" snarled the Demon as he once again pulled himself out of rubble.**

            **"No more Mr. Nice Guy! For it's not a role I like!**

**            "Enough of reason, on to treason, and now this Demon strikes!"**

            Cackling madly, Etrigan let loose a long gout of flame towards the angel Zauriel, and the fight was on in earnest....

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH...

            Harry sipped, burped, and watched. A great question was on his mind, one that had been bothering him for quite some time now:

            Which one of Charlie's Angels did he like best? They all had their good points, and as this was the 13th time he'd seen the movie, he ran over the now comprehensive list he had made up...

            Smile: Gotta give that one to Drew. Cute, cute, _cute._

            Figure: Mmm. The Asian one. It was a hard category, but all things considered...

            Personality: Harry paused, considering, and chewed the end of the straw. He felt a certain sympathy, not to mention something in common, with Bill Murray's character as he watched the fellow make a gun out of soap. Life could, at times, be hideously unfair.

            Behind him, there was a sudden bright flare of light. A bluish vortex of energy crackled and roiled as it opened without warning. Harry stared at the bright glow of it, watching, as a human figure became visible within the light, gradually growing more and more distinct...

            With a sigh, Harry muttered, "Here we go again..." and turned back to the TV. Had he _asked to live in the apartment of a guy who had, in the space of one evening, three break-ins of the mystical variety? Noooo. He hadn't._

            Harry Matthews had almost decided to firmly ignore whatever popped out of this portal when he realized that the materializing figure looked distinctly... feminine.

            Considerably more interested, he turned appreciative eyes on the woman who finally solidified on Jason Blood's apartment floor, looking a little dazed.

            Young... blonde... really nice body... and completely, buck, not-a-stitch-on-her, naked. Harry muttered a loud "D'oh!" and, regretted, not for the first time, having lost certain... aspects of humanity in his pillow form.

THE CREEPY-CRAWLY NEXT ISSUE BOX: Yeah, I know. Weird place to end an issue, but it took me forever just to get this far. Mayhap the muse will strike better next month. In which, we'll continue the brawl between devil and angel, and learn a bit about the new girl.

30117


	8. A Night to Remember, Part Five: Of Heave...

TALES OF THE DEMON #8 ~ "A Night to Remember, Part Five: Of Heaven, Hell, and Time-Travel"

by Dien Prologue__

_            She was born Nicolé Suzette Menois, in a tiny French village that the maps no longer hold any record of. As the youngest of seven children, five of them girls, she was not particularly welcome. Her parents were by no means rich; she was another mouth to feed and a bride, someday, to dowry..._

_            At the age of six, her miller father hired her as a maid to the richest family in town. She was obedient and hard-working, and before she was seven, she had been bought outright-- an arrangement by no means unusual, in those days._

_            The banker who was now her master was well-to-do, and his wife in particular became fond of little Nicolé. If she traveled to Lyon or Grenoble, for parties and the social circle, so did Nicolé, to fetch things for her and be her maid. It was a good enough existence._

            In her eighth summer, a business deal went horribly wrong. The banker was imprisoned for fraud, the servants largely let go or rehired to help pay off enormous debts. Nicolé was parted from her mistress, among tears and pleas, and sent to work at her master's cousin's house.

_            He was richer yet than the banker, but not so kind, and Nicolé often longed for the tiny village and her beloved mistress, especially since her work at the larger, country house was not so pleasant. She was old enough now to work in the kitchens, to carry wood and water. To be a drudge._

_            When she was ten, her new master-- a merchant named Cheval-- was to have a dinner guest. The house bustled with activity, with anxiety; she was told to stay in the kitchens and out of sight. The guest was supposed to be important, here all the way from Paris, and little country girls should stay out of the way._

_            But Eloise, the older girl who worked with her in the kitchens, chose that afternoon to run away with the blacksmith's son, and there was no one else to take the wine out to the table when they rang for it._

_            Trembling, she had picked up the pewter flagon and gone down the passage, conscious of the stains on her simple clothes and her messy hair, conscious that Master Cheval would not be happy with her._

_            A moment's pause by the door, to try and collect herself, then into the dining hall. There was Master, at the head of the table, dressed in his best furs, his heavy gold chain around his neck, all his rings glittering on his fingers-- up until then, the epitome of wealth and power in her little world._

_            But the man who sat next to Cheval was the focus of her attention. He was tall, and pale, and had hair as red as fire, with a white streak down the middle of it. He was dressed in plain black clothes, with the barest fur trim, and wore only one little ring, but he seemed richer with that alone than all her master's finery. Beside him, Cheval seemed a sweaty, loud, nervous boy, dressed up in his father's things, and trying to be impressive._

_            And then the stranger had looked up and seen her-- eyes like blue ice had captured hers-- the world had turned inside out. _

_            Still, she had managed to walk over to the table normally enough, pour the wine with hands that barely trembled, keep her eyes down, respectfully._

_            She had spoiled the effect a bit when she dropped a full brimming goblet over Master Cheval's lap, however._

_            He'd screamed and sworn and been about to hit her, but the stranger's blue eyes were on him, cool and observant, and all the anger had seemed to drain out of Cheval. Very pale, he'd merely muttered for her to get back to the kitchen. _

_            She'd fled, but not before one more glance at the guest. He was looking at her, a faint smile on his face, and a calculating look in his eyes. She had been afraid without knowing why._

_            The next day she was told she had been sold to the strange man, and that she was to pack up her few possessions and be ready to go._

_            That was how she came into the service and acquaintance of Jason Blood._

_            The year was 1694._

Now 

Harry grinned. "Hi."

A pair of clear blue eyes looked up at the sound, dazed confusion in their depths. A long strand of wavy blonde hair was hanging in her vision, and Harry sighed. _Mama mia, what a situation. This sort of thing _never_ happened back in the days when I could have _done_ something about it..._

The girl still seemed severely out-of-it and disoriented. He tried again. "Hey, hello. My name's Harry. How about you?"

She shook her head to clear it, the fine blonde hair swirling around her head like a blizzard, and seemed to focus a bit. Her body (which Harry was examining with, of course, pure detached and professional interest) stood up and assumed a... fighting stance? Yes, that was a fighting stance. Fists held out before her, muscles tense, nerves alert.

_Angel breaks in, accuses Jason of theft, Jason fries him. Check._

_Cool English guy breaks in, goes after Jason and the angel. Check._

_Seriously hot, nude, blonde ninja babe teleports in. Check._

_Officially the weirdest evening I have _ever_ had? Definite check._

"Um, hi. I'm not an enemy, heck I couldn't even hurt you if I wanted to, and I _don't_. See, I'm a friend. My name's Harry. Can you hear me?" he said slowly.

The blue eyes narrowed on him suspiciously, then she said. "_Oui_. I hear you. You are Engleesh?"

_Oh mama mia, a seriously hot, nude, blonde ninja FRENCH babe. This is _not_ fair._

"Oh no. Not me. I'm American. To the core. As apple pie, or baseball, or..." he trailed off as he realized she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Ah, _m'sieur_, slower, if you please. My Engleesh is good, but you speak most strangely... You say your name ees 'Arry?"

"Harry Matthews. I'd shake your hand, but I don't have the capability."

She looked at him strangely, then moved closer until she could see over the couch between them. "_Sacre bleu!_ You... you are a... pillow!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," sighed Harry. "It's a long and tragic tale."

She eyed him curiously, then realized he was eyeing her back with not-inconsiderable interest. She glanced down and seemed to realize she was naked.

"_Mon dieu..._ ah..." she quickly glanced around, saw the tuxedo jacket on the floor that Jason had left there some hours ago, and grabbed it up to cover herself with.

"It was fine the way it was, really," Harry sighed under his breath, but she wasn't listening to him, looking around the room instead with wide eyes.

"_Merde..._ everything, it ees so strange to my eyes..."

"Yeah, well, America's probably a bit different from France," Harry said.

"America? _Le nord or _le sud_?" she asked, turning back to him._

"Huh?"

She rolled her eyes and seemed frustrated. "Ah. What ees word... The north, or south americas?"

Harry blinked. "The United States Americas. North, I guess."

She frowned. "And what ees the year, 'Arry Matthews?"

"Boy, you're _really not from around here, are you? 2002," he said, then added, "A.D" in case she was confused about that as well._

"2002..." she repeated dazedly, then looked like she wanted to sit down. "Three hundred years.... _sacre merde."_

"You're from the past? You time traveled to get here?" Harry asked excitedly.

"_Oui... _and... where is m'sieur Jason Blood?" she asked quietly, looking around again.

Harry stopped. Damn. 

Of _course she was interested in Jason. No hot French blonde attack babes ever teleported through time here looking for _him._ Just Jason._

Life sucked.

"He'll be back soon," he grumbled, turning back to the TV. "He's out fighting, or something."

"Ah..." she said, then tried to pull the tuxedo jacket closer around her. Harry sulked. She wasn't his problem. Let Jason deal with her.

"M'sieur 'Arry... I am Nicolé Menois," she said awkwardly, after a moment of silence during which Harry glared at the TV and ignored her. "I... you are a... friend of m'sieur Blood's?"

"No," he snapped angrily. "I'm the pillow who lives in his apartment. I am _not_ his friend. Jerk doesn't have friends."

"_Oui_," she said softly, then hesitated again. "Ah... can I ask how it ees that you are... a pillow?"

"No," he said sharply, and turned his attention back to Charlie and his angels.

Another awkward silence ensued, during which Harry sulked some more but felt his resolve slipping. Uh-uh. No. No way was he going to start being nice to her again. Nope. Not happening.

He stole a glance of her in one of the mirror fragments that still lay on the floor from the earlier casting. She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch, wrapped in the not-quite-modest tuxedo jacket, looking around her at her alien surroundings with a distinctly miserable air.

She couldn't be any more than twenty, he thought, and probably younger than that. He felt the first twinge of remorse shoot through his stuffing, and ruthlessly squelched it down. She. Was. Jason's. Problem.

Her sky blue eyes were roaming over the furniture, the TV, the room in general with confusion and a little fear written across her features. He noticed she was shivering in the drafts from the broken window. 

Nope. No way. No. Nada. Nanu nanu, as Mork said. Not. Gonna. Hap--

"So how'd you wind up here?" he sighed, sipping the rum from the straw.

Nicolé Menois started and looked up. "Pardon? 'Wind up?'"

He grimaced. "It's slang. Jargon. The way we talk here... now. How did you get here."

"Oh." Her face cleared. "M'sieur Blood, he performed _la sorcellerie. _He said he needed me in the future more than now. So, I step in the circle as he tells me, I stand still when he tells me, he reads words from old books. The world goes away... it is like falling through the earth. I... wake. Here. Now. With you."

"_Jason_ sent you through time?"

_"Oui."_

"Hmm." Harry considered. "You must probably be pissed at him, yeah?"

Her exquisite brows drew together in confusion. "How... 'pissed'? What is that word?"

"Angry. You must be mad at him, right?"

Though she now understood what he meant, the confusion on her face only shifted slightly, rather than going away. "Angry? With m'sieur Blood? _Imposibilitie_, m'sieur 'Arry. He is my master. I _can be angry at him. I can also be angry with God, or the king, or the sun above my head. This... _pissed_, it does not accomplish anything," she said with a sad little smile._

Harry found himself at a loss for words. Obviously the situation here was a new one. He settled for clearing the part of his anatomy that roughly corresponded to the throat a few times, then said, "Hey, uh, Nicolé... I can call you Nicolé?... if you're cold, there's some coats and other clothes and things in the closet behind you there."

She glanced in that direction, nodded, and rose to her feet. As she selected some other garments from the closet, Harry mused to himself that he and Jason needed to have a serious talk.

ELSEWHERE IN GOTHAM CITY

            Flame that was hotter than any man could ignite scorched through the air, setting the very oxygen on fire. Zauriel gasped as it hit, painfully searing his angelic flesh. Three beats of his wings took him into the air, where he'd hopefully be able to clear his mind of the pain and figure out how the hell Klarion had conjured hellfire to attack him with.

            Or not. A growl from below was the only warning before more fire, this time accompanied by a powerful form hurtling into him, and the two warring figures slammed together into another one of the wall.

            **"Tell me angel, could Witch-Boy's hands**

**            "Do this? Or could he leave such brands?**

**            "Wield such fire, spit such rhyme?**

**            "Admit! You're wasting _both_ our times!**

**            "Still, it doesn't bother me that much**

**            "For I confess I've lost my touch**

**            "In fighting those haloed and bright--**

**            "Thus, this practice is sorely needed.**

**            "So since my words you have not heeded**

**            "We'll see how you handle the fight!"**

The concrete above them started to crack and rain debris down on their heads, Zauriel struggling against both the falling masonry and the demon's body. With a mighty shove, he pushed Etrigan away from him and across the street, where the demon slammed into a streetlight's pole (neatly breaking it in two). Without so much as breaking pentameter, Etrigan leapt forward again, his claws extended for Zauriel's face.

            **"Oh, let us see how you see ****_sans_ eyes**

**            "My wingéd foe. For perhaps the lies**

**            "Of youthful mage shall be dispelled**

**            "When you _have no senses to be ensorcelled."_**

            Zauriel saw the Witch-Boy's hands extending for his face and automatically lashed out with a kick that sent Etrigan back in the direction of the streetlight, wheezing all the while. The angel was in too much pain to grin at the sight, his skin still smarting from the flames. He flew forward to the attack, every thought gone but that it was time to finish this. Where the hell was his demonic so-called ally? Figured. Stupid of him to even think about trusting a demon...

            He grabbed up the top half of the broken streetlight and hefted it as an imposing war-club. "Let's see if _this_ doesn't put some dents in your tousled little head," he gritted out, and swung with a swing that would have had any Major League baseball team recruiting him on the spot.

            But the demon was ready for the fight now, and breathed a gout of fire that incinerated the lamp-post in mid-swing, several feet from his head. With an insanely malicious grin, he counter-attacked with a tremendous back-hand to the angel's face.

            **"So I'm told of Lady Payback**

**            "And what a bitch she can be.**

**            "Yes, I _did enjoy that attack--_**

**            "Was it as good for you as me?"**

Zauriel was a bit too busy hurtling through the air to answer, even if he had heard the question correctly through his enchanted senses. He had no such translocation spells as the demon had had, and was forced to endure the unpleasant sensation of direct impact with the plate-glass window on the third story of one of Gotham's downtown skyscrapers.

            "...Ouch," he managed, pulling himself to his feet in the (fortunately empty, at this hour) office building. He hurt. A lot. But Heaven banish him if he'd let this... _kid_ get the better of him.

            He gritted his teeth, reminded himself of the true Source of his strength, and rose from the window-- to be hit by a full-strength, devastating wave of hell-fire. Wings smoking, trailing a few blackened feathers in their wake, he dropped like a stone to the pavement below, temporarily dazed by the flame. Etrigan grinned from the window-ledge he'd chosen as his attack point, and dove for the falling angel's body. He hit him in mid-air, hastening their descent to the hard asphalt.

            They actually landed in a parked VW Beetle, literally smashing it under their combined weight and velocity. Zauriel, who had been on the bottom and thus received more of the impact, grunted weakly and tried to sit up.

            His efforts were compounded by the fact that he had a demon more or less on top of him, whose strong and taloned hands were currently locked in a tight grip on his throat. The angel choked and struggled. Etrigan laughed and leaned in closer, to taunt.

            **"No proud words of last defiance? No brave oath of self-reliance?**

**            "Pity. Well, surrender then, and we'll mend fences**

**            "Given that you can be brought back to your senses."**

However much Zauriel correctly heard of the uttered derision, his answer at least was easy to comprehend. He head-butted the skull in front of him, fortunately missing the horns.

            **"Gyuhhh..."** Etrigan said weakly.

            Zauriel grinned with righteous wrath, pulled free of the now limp hands, and delivered a quite impressive uppercut into the stunned demon's chin. 

            **"...'Oh look Jack I'm flying' quoth our heroine Rose.**

**            "Though I'll wager she wasn't put there by angelic blows--**

**            "However titanic in strength and power..." **the demon mused feebly to himself as he rocketed upwards in the air. He continued philosophically,

            **"Still, Newton's, not Cameron's, rules yet abound**

**            "And what goes _up must assuredly come _down__**

**            "As the angel learns, this very hour!!"**

            And upwards of three-hundred pounds once more crashed down on Zauriel, who it seems had forgotten to move. The Volkswagen, already totaled, was reduced to shrapnel that embedded itself into the asphalt.

            "Now, Witch-Boy, you shall taste my wrath! Let us finish this!"

            **"Gladly, haloed nitwit, prepare to die**

**            "Or at least to use those wings to fly--"**

            "Bloody. Fucking. 'Ell," drawled an English voice in disbelief. "It's like walking into terrorist Ireland... or me ex-girlfriend's flat... bloody war-zone..."

            The two figures momentarily paused, fists upraised, and glanced towards the figure who was crawling over the rubble of the ice cream store. He finally made it through the mess and stood at the edge of it, brushing dust and debris off his trousers and trenchcoat. Cool blue eyes surveyed the scene as the man took a drag on his cigarette.

            "Right proper mess of it you two've made, innit?" he said casually.

            "Who in the name of the Book is _this?_" Zauriel said in exasperation.

            **"Constantine, we meet again. I can't profess I'm glad.**

**            "Angel, this is John the English mage. Be warned. I'm fairly sure he's mad."**

            John nodded politely to the two of them, then walked over to the angel, still paused mid-punch, and looked him in the eye.

            "Hmm. Nasty bit of an enchantment you got there, mate," and slapped him hard across the face. "There. That should do it."

            Zauriel blinked, and blinked again. A human's slap was little more than a gnat bite to him, but he felt suddenly dizzy. When his vision cleared, he looked around... and saw Etrigan.

            "What in... all this time, I've been fighting _you?"_ he asked in disbelief.

            **"Brilliant, Holmes. 'Tis so profound I cried,"******Etrigan snorted.

            "Why in Heaven's name didn't you _say_ something?" the angel managed.

            **"Unholy hell! Don't you think I ****_tried?"_ **the demon snarled, looking aggrieved. Zauriel looked faintly embarrassed as he and Etrigan crawled out of the demolished remnants of the automobile. The angel looked around with a chagrined expression. "Oh, great God... _we _did all this? Oh no... we have to fix it..."

            "Relax, squire," said Constantine, lighting another one of his ever-present cigarettes. "City officials'll write it off as an act of God. Mind," he said with another glance at the two of them, "might not be far too wrong. Anyways, insurance'll pay for it. Come on then, 'fore the cavalry gets here."

            John Constantine calmly turned and walked away, not even looking back to see if he was being followed by the two. Etrigan grumbled under his breath, but stalked after the man. With one last bewildered look, the angel followed the demon and the man away from the battlefield.

THE-SHRINK-WRAPPED-NEXT-ISSUE-BOX: My utter, utter, deeply heart-felt apologies for the time this took to get out. I promise it won't happen again. *looks extremely chagrined* Life... don't talk to me about life.

Anyways, next ish: Constantine explains what he's there for, and Jason is returned to us-- and that little surprise he has waiting at home.


End file.
